Robbin' the Rich
by Lonerofthepack
Summary: NON-BBC Robin's the grandson of a Scots Laird and a Saxon noble. He's fought with the Lionheart. Now he must reclaim his properties, protect his outlaws and keep one lass, Marian, from driving him mad. Rated M to be safe graphic sex/attempted rape/torture
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Jerusalem, 1192—under the military direction of King Richard, the Lionheart. Late summer._

Two men snaked their ways forward, slithering undetected across the sand dunes of the desert they had camped near, one toting a bow that was nearly as long as his willowy frame, the other a short sword with an edge like a straight razor. The only light came from the luminous bowl of the sky, shed by the half-moon and the brilliant stars that studded the deep black. Vegetation was sparse, even with the ocean only a day away by horse, and the mountains loomed all around the city they held.

"Much—ye be crazy. There be nay tae ways aboot it. Ye be crazy—an' Ah'm daown-right oot o' mah mind fer even lettin' ye drag me intae this. Damned foolish thing tae be doin'. The Lionheart isna goin' tae be wanderin' aroound a' this time o' the night," the Scot growled softly to his friend, crawling forward on his belly alongside the Saxon. "No' this soon af'er the las' attack."

"I bet you ten pence that he is," Much replied absently, used to his friend's grumbling.

Robin merely growled his grudging agreement to the wager.

The king strolled into sight, amid the dunes of sand not far outside the ring that the sentries' rough camps created around the holy city. Breath hissed through the redhead's teeth in a violent oath—the Lionheart was indeed wandering around, and without his guards at that.

"Ah owe ye ten pence, Much," Robin ground out.

"Aye, Robin, that you do."

"O' all the things tae be doing naow," Robin grumbled, as irritated by losing the wager as he was that the King of England was going to get himself killed.

King Richard often walked around to the sentries at night, to ensure that no one was sleeping on duty. His blatant refusal to allow bodyguards crowding him while he was in the camp was famous.

Famous enough that even Saladin had heard, and sent killers to put an end to the English nuisance, for looming behind the English king were five or six assassins fanned out in the dunes, waiting to take the Lionheart permanently out of commission.

Robin muttered dire Gaelic curses under his breath. "_Och—Nis a bheil a deagh uine a bhith a'coiseachd mun cuairt coltach a burraidh—_" he drew another sharp breath, and hissed, "Much, yer friend there 'as a death wish."

The shorter man shrugged equably, not denying the Scot's statement. "Damn it. I hope you don't mind taking three, Robin—I'd rather not have to come down from a fury," Much murmured back, easing to his feet slowly to avoid being seen.

The redhead mouthed something incomprehensible to himself—more curses, or perhaps a prayer for the patience necessary to comprehend these strange English men he'd thrown his lot in with, and noched an arrow to the longbow for which he was infamous. The light was low, the angle was all wrong, and Robin knew the shot was a crazy attempt, but he drew the shaft back anyway. Madness was something one got used to quickly here.

"Be ready tae jump right in th' second Ah let go o' this—Ah'm no' tae keen on gettin' ye daown from a bloodlust either," he warned in a low tone, and released the arrow, killing one of the Saracens.

At once, both Crusaders leapt up, and crossed the small distance between them and their leader in short order, surprising their king. The arrow, despite the archer's misgivings, had struck his target square in the chest, dropping the Turk without a sound. The Norman's eyes widened and he had only time enough to curse at the fearsome sight of two of his own soldiers charging him.

It was a grim smile of concentration that flitted around the Scot's mouth as he threw himself past the startled Richard—the irony of a Scot and a Saxon protecting a Norman appealed to his rather dry sense of humor—and stopped another of Saladin's minions in his tracks by flinging his _sgian dubh_, the small, lethally sharp dagger he generally kept safely sheathed in his boot. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, bringing with it a welcome rush of cool-headed awareness.

His bow had been left behind—God help the soul who tried to steal it from him—and now he unsheathed the long, fourteen-inch dirk used by the Scots to fight at close quarters. A third Saracen fell beneath it with only the smallest of death gurgles, and he could hear the other two meeting similar demises nearby.

Robin spun about when he sensed someone approach at his back, dirk rising swiftly to defend. He relaxed only when he saw that Much and the English king had finished off the assassins, and that it was his friend, free of the strange berserker fury that occasionally clouded his hazel eyes, who approached.

The immediate area secured, Robin traded a speaking glance with Much, and slipped away to retrieve his bow, first cleaning the blood from the dirk and sheathing it. The Scot moved stealthily across the loose sand, checking their surroundings once more before he returned to Much's side, causing both the Saxon and the King both jump when he materialized from the shadowy dunes. He retrieved his _sgian dubh_ from one of the robed corpses, cleaned it carefully of the man's blood and tucked it away once more in his boot.

"Yer Majesty," he acknowledged the king with a nod of his head. "Ye are uninjured?"

Several guards and a clerk from the outposts came running toward them, having heard the noise of the thwarted assassination, but stopped short when they saw the bodies of the enemy sprawled on the ground.

Richard Lionhearted blinked at the Scot, suddenly recalling why the younger man seemed so familiar. He'd stood out among the recruits, the copper-headed bowman. Half-Scottish, half-Saxon, if the King's memory didn't fail him (and it was rare that his memory failed him); grandson of Malcolm McNiell of Dhu Lairg, a particularly powerful chieftain in Scotland, and of the late Loxleys, who had been powerful Saxon nobles in their day. War had aged the handsome face some, Richard noted, and had made the lean frame sparer. The short Saxon beside him, with the light-colored hair and a stocky build, was unfamiliar.

"_Oui—_Yes,I am fine. I offer my thanks to you, gentlemen, for your timely assistance. It was…most appreciated. Your names, _s'il vous plait—_ah, if you please?" He inquired, his voice elegant with the lilt of the Norman nobility.

"Robin Loxley, Laird," the Scot answered simply.

"Much Whitewell, sire," the other stepped forward, beside his taller friend so that they stood as a unit.

The King inclined his head regally. "It appears that I am in your debt. Is there anything that you would wish that I might grant you?"

The two exchanged a surprised glance. They had not expected to receive any favors when they went to their leader's aid—indeed; it had been sheer chance that Much had even thought he'd seen the Lionheart.

"Your Majesty's leave to return to England. That's probably the greatest boon you could grant us," Much answered carefully. Neither he nor his Scottish comrade had enjoyed their sojourn here in Palestine.

"Oh?" There was a stunned, almost dismayed, look on the striking face of the English king. "You do not wish for properties? Jewels?"

"Nay, sire," Robin Loxley answered this time, shaking his head.

"Power? Position?"

"Nay, sire. Jus' home," the Scot repeated, thinking fondly of the fair sized property in the Midlands he had left several years before.

The fair-haired Norman nodded slowly, undone by a reluctant sympathy. He could appreciate the sentiment of 'just home', even if it meant losing two adept soldiers. And he had promised, after all.

"I understand. You shall have it, then, Much Whitewell and Robin Loxley, as a reward for coming to my side of your own volition. There are few, I think, who would have done the same." He turned to the clerk that had fetched the guards. "See to it, Samson."

"At once, Your Majesty," the man promised, as the tall Scot pulled out ten pence for Much and handed it over with a mild curse.

A week later, a ship nosed its way out of the harbor at Acre, headed for England.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_England, 1194—under the rule of Richard the Lionheart's regent, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine and the heir apparent, Prince John Landless. Early April._

"They never will learn to look up, will they?" A tall, broad-shouldered Saxon muttered to his companion as they waited in England's broad-branched oaks, early spring foliage beginning to turn the woods to emerald green.

"Nay, Wee Johnny, hope tha' they dinna learn. T'would make life so much mor' difficul'," the other man said, gazing down on the carriage that was slowly making its way toward their hiding place. He smirked just a little as the carriage rolled beneath them.

"Alright, Liddle John. As planned, aye?"

"Aye, as planned," Little John replied.

Little John slipped silently from his tree, and planted himself firmly in the middle of the road. Accordingly, the carriage slowed to a crawl, then a stop before him.

Little John betrayed his name, seeming almost as tall as the oaks around him, and in some cases, twice as thick. Muscles that had been formed young working in a tavern years ago had become even harder and leaner while in the company of the dreaded Robin Hood of Sherwood, making the man look like a small mountain. The coachman took one look at the giant before him and fell over himself in an effort to desert the carriage, knowing full-well the usual fate of defiant servants at the hands of outlaws. There was always work to be found—but if one such as he stayed, it might become decidedly more difficult to locate vital parts of his anatomy.

Robin landed on the roof of the richly decorated coach, producing a thump that caused shouts of alarm from inside, and watched the servant run before his attention turned back to the rich nobs inside the carriage. A head poked nervously out of the door. Robin smiled as he leaned down over the edge, and leapt lightly to the ground.

"Good day tae ye, mah bonnie lairds. Yer lookin' well this fine mornin'—'ealthy, an' prosperous, Ah'd say."

His appearance caused the three men inside the carriage to go quite pale—they knew trouble when it looked them in the face and grinned like that.

"Ah—Ah—our thanks—" the boldest stuttered. The display of courage raised him slightly in Robin's standards—they were a nervous bunch, these Normans, and didn't take well to being waylaid. Few managed to be coherent.

"As today is sich a won'erful pretty morn', an' as ye do look so verra prosperous, would ye be willin', say, tae contribute tae a just cause?"

"N-no, I-I'm afraid we don't have—" the luckless gentleman's wavering voice trailed off into indecision. While inspecting his herds, he had once seen in the eyes of a wolf the same ruthlessness he saw now in the Scot's eyes. Nothing would stop the bandit, as nothing had stopped the wolf as the creature took the fattest ewe in his herd right before his eyes.

"Ah see. Well, Ah must say, tha' is mos' unfortunate, ye see, fer mah friend here—" Robin gestured to Little John, who had joined him in looming over the gentlemen, "—has nay a lot o' patience with tightfisted people. Am Ah right, Liddle John?"

"You are at that, Robin."

They bantered back and forth in a similar fashion for some moments. With every word that the outlaws uttered the three noblemen looked increasingly stricken, until they quite willingly surrendered their valuables. Such was often the case when Robin and Little John laid the intimidation-tactics they favored on thickly enough.

So the day was won, as Robin preferred it, without a drop of blood spilt.

The outlaws walked away from that encounter with full purses, brimming with coin enough to bring tears to the Normans' eyes. They would be traveling until dusk, at least, to get back to Ard Darach, their camp—Robin had a policy never to strike too close to home, lest they be followed.

They never expected to have the King's foresters—stout men sworn to the protection and upkeep of the forest—set upon them, with the Sheriff's men in tow.

* * *

"_Wanted, Ded or A live: the ooutlaw, Robyn Hud._

_Reward oferred."_

She ripped down the ill-written, sketchless notice demanding the capture of Robin Hood. Foolish, she thought. Few of the Saxons in Nottingham or anywhere in the Midlands knew how to read, much less the French or Latin that the signs were written in. The posters had been posted in every village within four days walk of Sherwood Forest, since no one knew where the villain was hiding with the woodland. It boasted of a grand reward, two hundred shillings to anyone with Robin's whereabouts or news that would lead to the marauder's arrest. The outlaw had aggravated the Sheriff for nearly a year round now, and if one believed the popular stories, had slain the Sheriff's brother, the equally odious Magistrate…crimes that he would, no doubt, pay for with his life.

But the people of Nottinghamshire had great affection for anyone who could tweak the long nose of the Sheriff who controlled their lives. This was largely why he'd been so unsuccessful in his hunt for the man. Robin Hood had the loyalty of all of the Saxon folks, and only a few of the villagers knew the forest well enough to even guess at his whereabouts. Fewer still would actually recognize the man himself, or the members of his band of outlaws.

Marian sighed, crumpling the parchment into a tiny ball, and climbed the stairs of the inn where she worked. The innkeeper—a kind man, and great supporter of this Robin Hood fellow—had asked her to wake one of his guests before the noon-bell tolled. A late-comer, he'd said. Apparently a late-riser, as well.

Still, she was more than willing to oblige. Marian was lucky to have found someone willing to hire her, for her former life had been decidedly softer, and she was unskilled (being the niece of the King of England, she had had no real experience with menial chores). Nonetheless, she had a strong back and no interest in a convent just yet. Running away from the loveless marriage to a disreputable lout had been a poor choice, but the alternative…

Suffice to say that she'd been lucky to escape it, she thought, and determinedly put it from her mind. These little trips into the past did no more than depress her, so they would stop, here and now.

Arriving at her destination, she knocked on the door of the correct room, just as a crash resounded from below. Loud voices reached her ears, coming from the common room. She knocked harder in the sudden din, before turning the knob impatiently.

'_Probably sleeping off too much ale…_' she thought dourly, her brief experience enough to know that men couldn't seem to imbibe without overindulging.

Allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the curtained room, she glanced curiously at its occupant. The man inside was a young Scot, or possibly Irish; in his mid to late twenties, she figured. His fiery red hair fell past his shoulders in a long, tangled wave, and he was in the act of tying it up in a ponytail, obviously to keep it out of his face, though the Medusa strands of burnished copper kept rebelliously escaping the leather tie he bound it back with. Marian spared a moment to envy that hair before her gaze moved on to his narrow, fine-boned face. His eyes were a pale blue, the shade of a summer sky; his build lean and muscled from a life of hard work. He also, she noted with considerably more approval, didn't appear to be battling the aftereffects of copious amounts of alcohol.

The man was obviously well awake, and threw her a startled look when she opened the door. At the sight of Marian, who could most definitely be deemed unthreatening, he relaxed…somewhat.

The noises from downstairs got louder. His eyes narrowed at the sounds, and he waved her forward.

"Shu' the door, lass, won' ye?" A heavy Scottish burr gave his speech a charming drawl and settled the question of his origin. A tunic slipped down over his head, hiding bandages that had been white once, before the rusty color of blood had begun to stain the fabric. She complied, closing the door, but remaining nervously by it, astounded by the sheer charisma this stranger exuded—her heart was beating much faster than its normal measured pace and he'd barely spoken six words to her!

He seemed impossibly tall, even simply sitting on a cot in a tiny private room not much bigger than a monk's cell in a monastery and far too strong for his slender build. The fact that his features bore a wild sort of beauty was not lost on her either, now that she had taken a moment to study them. High, ice-sharp cheekbones resided in a narrow, tapering face with a blade-edged nose that miraculously appeared never to have been broken and a well-shaped mouth. Fierce eyes, direct and at the moment, amused, beneath slashing brows the same fire color of his hair, the same fire color of the light stubble that roughed his chin. He was a 'look-twice' man, as the other barmaids would say.

Paying Marian little mind, the man's head disappeared and reappeared from under a brown-dyed tunic, which he smoothed down a long torso, easing the wrinkles away. His woolen hose were next, donned discreetly under the length of the tunic and pulled taut to his waist with a few sharp tugs. Glancing down to locate his boots, he finally spared her a look.

"Ah dinna bite, ye keni. Ye've naught tae fear from me," he told her, sitting down again to rapidly ease on well-worn boots—and casually slipping a small dagger into the side of one of them, ready if he needed it. Once again, he rose from the bed, unfolding to a full six feet in height, and pulled a blue, green, and yellow length of cloth, draped over a wide belt, and tugged it around his waist. Another wide leather belt, this one beautifully tanned and tooled went on, cinched tight enough to keep the tunic tamed and the kilt settled nicely. A large pouch hung from it, filled with whatever he deemed important enough to warrant keeping close. The remaining cloth he gathered neatly and drew across his back and over his shoulder to act as a half-cloak, tucked easily into the belt to keep it still. After a moment, he added a third belt, narrower and as beautiful as the one before it, with a long sheathed dagger and a small pouch for coin hanging close at hand.

All of the man's clothes were shades of brown and green and grey, woodland shades, save the faint yellow and blue stripes in his tartan. And even if they were worn now, all had been well-crafted, the fabric fine and expensive, as befitted a man who carried himself so nobly. A gold ring with a simple-looking signet gleamed dully on his right hand—his family's crest or something of the sort, she was sure. Perhaps he was a favored by-blow of some influential Scottish clan, or a third son traveling alone.

Marian had to look up now to meet his eyes, even with the distance between them. Booted feet pounded up the creaking stairs, with the clear jingle of chain mail, distracting her briefly.

_What are soldiers doing in the inn?_ She wondered.

A hand flashed past her, barring the door. Marian suddenly found herself a lot closer to the large Scot, nearly pressed against his chest. He grinned unapologetically, slipping the same arm around her waist, and pulling her away from the door, just as someone banged ferociously on it. Marian froze, from both the sudden noise and the physical contact with this very _masculine_ man.

"Surrender now, outlaw! We know you're in there!" a tough, loud man's voice shouted through the door. Her eyes widened at him, and his grin turned wolfish.

"Ah. Yon Sheriff's men 'ave finally found me." He released her, crossing the small room with a single stride. "Took 'em long enough."

He grabbed a long bow and a quiver of goose-fletched arrows, which had been standing unobtrusively in a corner near the bed. These were slung over his broad shoulders with the ease of long practice. The pounding on the door increased—the Sheriff's men were going to break it down. The Scot flung open the window—forcing it as wide open as possible.

"Lass, come 'ere," he said, as the door took the beating of its life. She hesitated, for one second too long.

The barricade splintered, and the door was starting to come apart. There was a shout, and she was dragged toward the window, before being seized around the waist again. The Scot set one booted foot on the sill and leapt out the opening, an arm around her middle, pressing her against him. Marian was too surprised even to scream, despite the story-long drop, and managed only a stifled squeak. They landed hard, the outlaw taking her weight with a muffled grunt. He rolled them both back to their feet at once and took off into the cover of the forest.

It was fortunate that the inn stood nigh on the edge of the forest, because the fiendish outlaw dragged her there bodily, half carrying her. After what felt like a horrid eternity, he dropped Marian, concealing them both in a thicket. It was only then that she had regained her composure enough to act upon her kidnapping. The sound of her hand striking his face was muted by the surrounding foliage.

The man gaped at her for a moment, too startled to be angry. The mark on his cheek was almost the color of his hair when he finally reacted.

"Wot was tha' fer?" he hissed, as soldiers passed them, shouting.

"You just _kidnapped_ me! You've lost me my job!" she hissed back, before he pushed her farther down into the underbrush. Another group of soldiers crashed past, closer this time.

"If there were aught Ah could do aboot tha', lass, rest assured, Ah would," he retorted sharply, mouth pressed close to Marian's ear so that she had to suppress a shiver. "Ye'll forgive me if Ah take ye back tae the camp regardless, as ye're naow an _accomplice_. Or did ye want tae deal wit' the Sheriff by yerself?"

She merely turned and glowered at him with the best look of aristocratic contempt she could muster in such a position. He, unfortunately, seemed completely unimpressed by it.

i Ye ken: a term that carries over from Gaelic to English meaning 'you know'.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_Sherwood Forest, 1194. Early April. Late evening._

They made very good time, despite frequent escape attempts and the stunning lack of woods-craft she displayed, tripping over every fallen branch and stumbling through every briar. Marian decided quite soon she had absolutely no interest in being kidnapped by an outlaw, especially if it was this uncomfortable. Finally, the Scot hefted her roughly over his shoulder, the one opposite his bow and quiver. He was remarkably cheerful ten minutes later despite the extra burden he was carrying. Perversely, her ongoing tirade seemed to amuse him.

"Yelling'll do naught but bring foresters daown 'pon us, Lady, and Ah would prefer tha' didna happen."

"You're insufferable!"

She hit his back with her closed fist, lacking the leverage to do any real damage. His words may have been truthful, but they were said in a jesting tone, so she was quite convinced he was confident the foresters could do nothing to help her anyway.

"Lady, tha's another thing Ah'd prefer ye'd stop. Ah'm bruised enough withoot yer attentions. An' Ah ken Ah'm insufferable. 'ow d'ye think Ah got tae be so gud a' it?"

He pushed his way through yet another thicket, somehow dodging all of the branches that would have gladly smacked him—or her—in the face, and the thorns that reached for cloth and skin alike. Emerging on the other side, he paused, as though studying something. Curious, she wriggled until she could turn enough to see what he was examining—nothing more than a pile of boulders resembling a fallen cliff face and the massive oak tree they framed.

But the image was deceptive, as Marian learned upon closer inspection. The alcove was surprisingly defensible, sheltered on all but one side by the rocks, and the briars she and her captor had just struggled through blocked the rest of the way. A stream meandered nearby, with a fallen tree forming a natural bridge across it. Growing around and in some places _through_ the boulders was the gigantic oak tree, one that ten men stretched fingertip to fingertip wouldn't have reached around. Its limbs were thicker then she, and many times stronger as they spread a passable roof over the nature-made fortress. It looked like a faerie general's keep.

The protection of the rocks allowed for a semi-permanent fire ring, around which a group of bandits gathered.

Marian and her captor had arrived back at the outlaws' shelter just before sundown, apparently at the thieves' suppertime. At the hearthside Marian could hear low chatter coming from the outlaws who lounged around it, eating and relaxing, bickering playfully amongst themselves. There were weapons, kept close at hand, but the air of ease about them told her the outlaws were assured of their safety in their haven of wood and stone

"Robin's back," someone remarked.

Marian felt a jolt in the region of her stomach. _Robin? As in…'Robin Hood__**'**__? This—this __**ass**__ is Robin Hood? _

"And what's this he's brought back with him? Robin, you've brung us a tavern wench?"

Marian couldn't see this Robin's face, but she doubted it was amused, because he nearly dropped her as he let her down.

"She was in the wrong place a' the wrong time, Much, tha's _all_." There was frost in Robin's retort, which made Marian's eyebrows rise—what was his problem? _She_ had been the one who'd been kidnapped.

Much was a short wiry man, cheerful in appearance, and definitely Saxon. Riotous light-brown hair curled nearly to eyelevel and his bright hazel eyes shone with merriment. He seemed to have brushed off the unfriendly remark from his leader easily, which went a long way to proving her theory. Much turned to her, a welcoming grin very much in evidence.

"Don't mind Robin, there. He's always a bit peevish when he's hungry. I'm sure you are as well. Hungry, I mean. I doubt you could match our Robin in peevishness."

Marian didn't get a chance to answer, because her stomach did it for her. She flushed crimson at the noise that emanated from her midsection.

"You were out late, Robin," a female voice remarked, and it took Marian a moment to find the speaker. She was a slim woman, with pale blond hair hewn short, clad in men's clothes. _Older than me_, Marian thought as she looked at the woman. _Maybe thirty. _

"Maud's blind," Much muttered beside her—he had seen where her eye had wandered. "So try not to sneak up on her. The last time that happened, Will nearly lost an ear, and Robin before him."

Marian nodded uncertainly, and made sure to remember that before continuing her observations. Now that she looked, there was at least one other woman there besides Maud, though this one wore a skirt beneath a huge tunic.

"Ah was delayed goin' through taown while leadin' the Normans ona bonniei chase, Maud, tha's all," Robin sat near the fire, pulling off his weapons, and laying them down nearby, to get comfortable. The action pulled his tunic up and the tartan aside, revealing a few inches of rust colored bandage.

"Robin, you've been injured."

It wasn't Much who remarked upon it, but another man. He was tall, a bit shorter in height than Robin, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. "Tuck'll have your scalp—he just finished patching George up."

"Thank ye, Will, Ah hadna' noticed," he said dryly. "'Tis naught but a scratch, anaway." His voice remained droll as he accepted a slab of bread with a bit of venison on it. "Jason—the innkeep o' the Flagon an' Prayer—insisted 'e bandage me up, tho'."

He was about a second away from biting it when Much snatched it out of his hand, placing it instead in Marian's, startling her. The Scot's teeth closed on air, a startled, irritated expression flashing across his face when he realized what the shorter man had done.

"Robin, you cad. The lady eats first. Have you no manners at all?" Much teased.

"Much, ye said yerself that Ah was in nay fit mood fer being played wit'. What makes ye think tha's changed in the minute since ye said it?" he growled, pale eyes narrowed at Much, then glancing at his stolen dinner. Sheepishly, Marian offered it back to him, but he shrugged.

"Nah. Eat it, lass. Tomorrow ye start working for it; earnin' yore keep, if ye will. There be nae'one here tha' doesn't. Which reminds me…'ave we got room fer…?" he blinked, realizing he didn't have her name, and turned his attention back on her. "Lady, we need a name tae call ye by."

"Marian." Her voice barely wobbled with the suppressed anger at her grudging welcome, but that was all she could trust herself to say without bringing attention to it.

_Earning my keep? The keep I didn't particularly wish to earn?_ She ate what she'd been given, because she was hungry, and she had had naught a bite all day, but she fumed.

"…fer Marian, in the sleeping quar'ers?" He finished his question, an eyebrow raised at the gathered company.

"We're out of blankets, for now," the other of the women spoke up, handing Robin a replacement for his stolen dinner, which he thanked her for.

"Ah thought we 'ad a' least three more?" He looked surprised. She imagined that didn't happen often. He didn't seem the type to leave his people without proper necessities.

"Nay, the last family took one with them, and the other two are more hole than blanket." This came from a huge man with a dark beard that hadn't spoken previously. Marian blinked at him, wondering why she hadn't noticed this giant long before—good God, he was nearly as tall as she was, and he was sitting on the ground!

"Hellfire an' damnation. Thank ye, Liddle John," Robin muttered distractedly, before looking toward one of the many shadowy corners of the camp.

"Anthony." He stood, and addressed a heavy shouldered man with a short beard who had just materialized from the direction in which Robin had been staring.

The man looked up with surprise—he hadn't thought anyone had seen him come in. But then, he allowed, it _was_ Robin—who seemed to always know who was coming and going. The Scot was canny like that.

"Aye, Robin?"

"D'ye feel up tae taown tamorrow?" The red-haired man inquired. "There be things tae barter for—blankets, flour, an' some others."

Anthony nodded. "I'll go early, an' pick up more thread, too."

Robin nodded the affirmative. "Good. We've coin enough naow." That done, he sank back onto the tree root he'd perched on with a sigh.

'_Coin taken from innocent travelers, no doubt._' Marian thought uncharitably, assuming correctly. The coin from the last hit was already safely buried in the cache where they stored their winnings, waiting to be distributed to the poor folk of the area, with a little kept by to be used for the outlaw's provisions.

"Anaway. Do we 'ave the room?"

"Wait just a moment here!" Marian hadn't realized that she'd spoken until everyone was staring right at her, and then she noticed as well that she'd leapt to her feet. A hectic flush lit her cheeks, but it wasn't enough to deter her from shouting – softly, in deference to obvious need for concealment.

"I don't know _what_ the usual custom for—for abducting tavern wenches is, but I assure you, I will not simply stay put! And certainly not with common _thieves_!"

The outlaws stared at her for a moment, as she had stared at them earlier, in stunned silence.

"The way Ah see it, Lady, ye've no choice at the moment," Robin answered her outburst with a distinct bite in his voice, watching her blandly from where he remained sitting. "But as t'is _mah _fault tha' ye were abducted; rest assured tha' ye'll be returned in gud order—once yon bonnie Sheriff's ire cools some, methinks. Does none o' us any good tae keep ye here against yore will, maid Marian, but Ah'd rather ye dinna inform 'im o' mah folk's whereaboots. So ye'll patien'ly wait n'til Ah can find a new camp, or ye'll no' go t'all."

Marian almost gaped at his audacity. _How dare he?_ she raged silently, objecting to the assumption that she would tell the Sheriff anything about anyone—_and_ to the threat of prolonged confinement.

"It 'twill do ye nay good tae gawp a' me like tha'. Much, since ye seem so accustomed tae dealin' wit' lassies an' their manners, ye can keep an eye on 'er."

With that, Robin obviously dismissed her , turning his attention back to his sandwich. Much shrugged his agreement to the offhand order, wondering just what had put Robin in so foul a mood all of a sudden. People called them 'thieves' all the time—they _were_ thieves. Generally, the Scot was more accepting of the fact.

"If you like, Robin. Where'll she sleep, though?" he asked hesitantly. Much wasn't afraid of his leader, but Robin was his friend from childhood, and that friendship had deep roots in mutual respect and several months in Palestine together. He didn't dislike seeing Robin put so off-balance by a woman—it was probably good for the solemn man. But it _did_ put him in a hellish mood, which the outlaws would be required to put up with.

"She can use mah blanket an' pallet, if she likes. Ah've interest in findin' a tree for mahself tonight anaway," he returned, his tone nearly a snarl, standing and turning his smoldering eyes to Marian once more.

"Lassie, as fer bein' _thieves_, 'tis true enough. If ye dinna like it, t'is yer problem. But yer stayin', regardless."

His voice was scathing now, throwing her tone of voice back at her, pound for ounce. She had touched a nerve. Or three.

Then, as quickly as the fire had flared, he had it banked again. Blue eyes were frozen now, instead of burning; he turned to his second in command.

"Much, Ah'll take yer watch so ye can settle her in." Half-eaten sandwich in hand, he slung the quiver on again with the other and strode back out of the small clearing, bow tucked under his arm.

"What's peeved 'im so badly?" Will wondered aloud, staring after his leader with a surprised look on his face. Robin's temper was infamous, but it generally took a bit of doing to provoke it.

"Mm. What indeed?" Little John joined Much in looking thoughtfully at Marian. Much shrugged off his speculative mood first.

"Well, anyway. Welcome to Ard Darach, Marian. That means 'Great Oak', by the way—not the most creative of monikers, but it's our humble home."

* * *

_He heard the thumps even before he had entered the house. Puzzled, he walked in, and was met with a strangled cry that sent him into the second room of the tiny cottage at a full run. The local magistrate was covering his mother, so that she could barely be seen, every jerk of his huge body bringing another sob from her. Bruises covered her pale skin, already starting to rise in purple and blue smudges, and blood dripped from her split lip. Her dress was torn, the skirt pooling limply on the bed around her. Robin bounded forward with a snarled obscenity, uncertain even as he moved as to what he would do—_could_ do._

_ It made no difference. The magistrate was a large man, and easily threw the boy off, so that Robin slammed into the thin wall with a resounding crack. Robin scrambled up again, to repeat the useless gesture, but the man had finished, and only spit casually in his direction, a sneer on his loutish face, before strolling out the cottage door. Shaking his head to dispel dizziness, the eight-year-old stumbled over to his sobbing mother._

_ It came as a shock when she slapped him away—not because she had never hit him before, lightly, deservedly, for some bit of naughtiness; but because of the utter terror on her face when she did it this time—and scrambled to huddle against the headboard in an effort to stay away from him. It would be hours before he would be able to get a word from her._

_ Now he was back in Palestine, years of relative happiness in between blurring together meaninglessly. Images flashed past him: Livonia, the little Muslim girl who'd helped her mother wash the army's linens and clothes. He'd promised Livonia's mother he would protect her—Barret of Fairbrook had made short work of that promise. She'd been barely fifteen, only three years younger than he at the time. Two minutes earlier, and he could have helped her, but he had been too late. She was worthless now, her mother had screamed in her broken mix of Latin and Arabic, no proper man would take her precious daughter as a bride now that she had been soiled by the English barbarians… He had at least been able to force Barret to desert the army—shaming him forever in the eyes of family and country so that he would never again leave Normandy, or touch another woman out of turn. _

_ "This is your fault!" the damning words echoed in a myriad of different voices, chasing him from sleep. _

i

Bonnie (also spelled bonny, occasionally): good looking, nice, good, attractive. It can be used in the connotation of 'what a pretty girl' or 'what a nice day'.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Sherwood Forest, England. Early April_

Robin awoke with a jerk, nearly falling out of the great oak tree where he'd spent the night after Much's watch, and struggled out of the confining plaid cloth. Only the tight-knit branches had saved him earlier from his own dream: without them, he probably would've fallen and broken something—likely his neck. With a shudder, the outlaw slipped down, out of the Great Oak, to splash some of the frigid early-spring water of the nearby stream on his face, the rest of his body damp with a cold sweat. He knew he wouldn't have woken anyone up—he had had never been one to speak aloud when he slept, and he was grateful for the skill, grateful that he'd waken no one up who would then come and inquire as to what was wrong. Now, if only he could make the almost daily nightmares stop altogether. Robin supposed Marian's arrival had triggered this particularly nasty one, though it probably wouldn't have mattered. He didn't need the appearance of a beautiful, spirited woman to bring back bad memories of other beautiful, spirited women.

The Scot was the first one awake in Ard Darach Camp that morning, up long before dawn, though those on sentry duty would be back in less than an hour. The forest was dewy and the light was reflected eerily in the predawn mist—the time of day that always made him miss the Highlands the most. Hunkering down miserably next to the banked fire, he went about bringing it back to life. The next awake was Little John, who could well have been sleepwalking, for all the conversation he offered. That was fine with Robin, who didn't much feel like conversing at the moment. Sleep had been impossible after the nightmare he had had earlier. What Little John could or could not divine from his leader's face wasn't discernable from his closed, bearded visage alone, and Robin didn't bother to try and guess.

Much, on the other hand, came out of the half-cave, half-burrow feeling particularly lively—and thus, talkative. After ten minutes of the low-toned but still enthusiastic chatter, Little John and Robin traded looks that should have warned Much he was likely to find himself held underwater until he shut up.

The most unfortunate part about his liveliness, the Scot mused sourly, was Much's ability to read his face with alarming accuracy. Robin was tired enough not to have completely masked the marks night-time fears had brought to his face, and his friend was pressing his advantage close to breaking point.

"How was your tree last night, Robin?" the question sounded innocent enough to her as she left the sleeping quarters, but Marian watched Robin shoot his friend a mild glare and scrub a hand over his face, as though to erase the weariness that had settled there like a mask.

"Much, ye know fair well how mah damn night was wit'oot askin' tha' Ah ha' a lousy night, an' tha' wordin' was disgustin'." He shook his head despairingly at the shorter man.

Much grinned. "Ah, but you guessed it, so you're no better'n me." But the playfulness drained away some. "Did you get a chance to see the eyes on the lovely lass you brought home the other day?"

"On Marian? Aye."

"Damn me if they aren't my aunt's."

"Yer aunt? Wheel, Ah suppose." He shrugged. He'd met the woman once, over ten years ago. "But Ah'd think ye'd know, dinna ye?"

"I'm thinking that she might be Joanna's. She did get mixed up with a Norman nearly twenty years back." Joanna was Much's rather notorious cousin; his aunt's third daughter, and known to Robin through a series of near myths and half-public secrets.

"Much, Ah dinna know anaone more inform'd than yer aunt. Ah think ye'd know if'n ye'd a nob—" Robin stopped his sentence dead at the sight of her, his face becoming as hard and bare as slate as he watched her over Much's head, disconcerting eyes brutally direct. Much, whose back was to Marian, eyed him expectantly, before starting to answer when it became obvious that Robin wasn't going to finish his sentence.

"I know, but it's been—"

"Much," Robin's voice was edged with steel. He looked past the Saxon pointedly. Much followed his gaze, and turned. A smile brightened his face almost immediately at the sight of her, his eyes shifting to full-out amusement at the beautiful quirk of fate before him. _Who'd have guessed? _He thought, pleased. _Robin's interested in her_.

"Hullo, Marian. You're up early." Much quickly changed the subject to something that Marian could talk about as well, while Robin ceased his input to a bare minimum and Little John said nothing at all. By then, others had begun to join them around the fire as well, and he could get away with it without seeming particularly unfriendly. His last words before parting the fire were decidedly in her interest, however.

"Much." The Saxon looked up, for the Scot had stood already. "Take Marian wit' ye when ye go oot, will ye? See if she kin pull a bow 'er size." Without even a word of farewell, he quit the camp with a few long strides. Much blinked at his abrupt departure, and then blithely went about introducing Marian to the other outlaws: Will Scarlet, Anthony, Little John, Maud, Isaac, Johnny, George, Robert, and a few others who were going to be moving along soon.

* * *

Robin's irritating attitude continued—for nearly two months he set Much to chaperoning Marian around Sherwood, while taking great pains to avoid her himself. He wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't sit near her—wouldn't, if he could help it, look at her! He had been kind enough to have gone back to the inn, collect her few belongings in their little bag, and hand it to her, but he had stuck around only long enough to tell her, with a hint of color staining his cheekbones, that Maud would help her with any and all of what he termed 'yon things tha' ye females do', and bolted before she could even thank him for the bag.

But no matter how much Robin might have wished otherwise, it quickly became apparent that the life of an outlaw suited Marian—that she had, in fact, taken to the freedom of it like a duck to water. She quickly became as muscled and sinewy as any of the others, her milk-pale skin going gold from exposure to the sun. She was a quick study with a bow under Much's tutelage, and with Will Scarlet's help, learned to find her way back to Ard Darach without fail from just about any point in the woods within weeks of joining the band of outlaws. Little John taught her how to fade in and out of the forest's warm shadows as silently as a phantom. After two days, she could not only stomach the outlaw's rough fare of meat—fresh, smoked, or salted venison, rabbit, pheasant, squirrel or anything else that could be shot, caught or trapped—and hardtack, the stews and the dark, grainy breads Maud made, but help make it.

Marian could never best Robin at it, though. It made her angry, that despite his flame-bright hair and lanky build, Robin could appear from almost anywhere he pleased out of the green-swathed forest, and, to her infinite irritation, without being seen until he chose. He was good at everything, it seemed, from shooting to washing dishes—and she wanted very much to be able to prove her worth, for she was certain that he had written her off as a useless child. And beside, it rankled, to have him ignore her all the time.

* * *

"Hey, Marian."

She looked up from restringing her bow, directing her attention to Much's bent head. It was a warm, lazy summer afternoon, the canopy of trees keeping it from becoming too hot where they sat, side by side, on a downed log. Much was fixing a snare that had gotten broken by a rabbit who had struggled remarkably vigorously. They were keeping an eye for the new herd of deer Anthony and John had reported nearby, and doing the little chores that needed doing. "What were you running from that landed you in a tavern?"

She froze, shock quickly giving way to horror. Questions of this sort were rare in camp—unless someone was hiding something that could endanger them all, Robin preferred to leave secrets alone. How much could she tell them that wouldn't lose her new friends' respect?

"What do you mean, Much?" she tried to pretend she had no idea what he was talking about, though her voice had the suspiciously innocent tone that made Much look up at her sharply.

The Saxon raised an eyebrow into a look that told her to come clean, and dropped them back to the snare, letting his silence do the work for him.

"An arranged marriage," she finally conceded, swallowing the lump her heart made in her throat. The other eyebrow rose in surprise, though he didn't look up. Arranged marriages weren't uncommon, they were a way of life—in fact, she should've been married years ago.

"To the Sheriff," she added, and surreptitiously wiped her palms against the trousers she wore. She needed to relax, she told herself firmly. Much was simply curious—Robin wouldn't ask her to leave. Not after nearly two months.

Now there was a look of understanding, and of sympathy. The Sheriff was at least twenty years her senior, though twenty-five would've been a more accurate guess—he was forty-three to her eighteen—and a complete lout. Widower of three wives, he also had bastard children all over the place that he refused to support or even acknowledge. A cowardly and cruel man, the Sheriff was no fit husband for anyone.

_Now wasn't _that_ interesting?_ Much wondered with an inward grin if Robin had had any notion of her plight when the Scot had asked Much in passing if _he_ knew. One to live and let live, Much hadn't then, but the question, from indifferent Robin no less, had piqued his own interest enough for him to want to find out. And it turned out that the information would have the added benefit of being able to rile Robin. He'd probably have a conniption when he found out, Much decided, not bothering to hide the pleased smile this time—The Saxon had noticed Robin's odd behavior around their newest member; Robin blew hot-then-cold in regard to Marian, and Much quite enjoyed the show. He did wonder when Robin would figure out that Marian was perfect for him and stop fighting the attraction. But Much wasn't worried. He figured that whatever it was about her that irritated Robin, it was good for the Scot to have a source of frustration to distract him from the other, larger frustrations that preyed on his friend's mind.

And wouldn't their children be cute?


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Sherwood Forest, England. Mid-June_

A week later, a full two months into her new life as an outlaw, Marian saw Much and Robin quietly speaking to one another by the campfire. In itself, that was not unusual. Much seemed to be one of the very select few that Robin relaxed with, and they would often talk together. Well, Much would talk, and Robin would listen and add his opinion as required; occasionally, he would even go so far as to quietly argue a point. What was odd, however, was that Much turned and motioned her over. Her heart sped up frantically as panic began to rise in her again. She wasn't going to be asked to leave—she prayed.

"Marian, a fat old stag of the two-legger variety is going to be passing us by quite closely tomorrow. Would you like to join us on a hunt? Little John, myself, Robin, Anthony, and Will will be going." Much told her.

Seeing her startled, almost bemused expression, Robin spoke up, amusement sparkling quietly in his eyes so that she wouldn't suspect that he was inwardly laughing.

"Wot laddie Much means: Do ye wish tae join Anthony, Liddle John, meself, Much, an' Will in pickin' the pockets o' bonnie Sir Theodore o' Mayfair, when he cuts through the forest tamorrow? Much an' Liddle John think ye've the gist o' high-robbery, an' 'ave asked me tae invite ye tae join us. Ah said t'was up tae ye."

She…wasn't being asked to leave. It was all she could do to keep from shouting for joy. She didn't have to leave!

Robin drew in a deep breath, watching her as she deliberated. He was asking her to join them in thievery, knowing full well how she may react…that she could, instead of staying, demand to be released and left back in the outside world…

"'Oweva…" She looked up again at him, those pretty sea-blue eyes suddenly, inexplicably alarmed. Masking his bafflement at the anxious expression in her eyes, he continued. "Ye may no' be able tae return tae yore respectable life. No' if Theodore recognizes ye. An' while Ah dinna think he'd be spoutin' aboot a woman stealin' from 'im, Ah do think 'e'd try tae make yer life a livin' 'ell. Keep tha' in mind, Lady. 'Nless ye go straight tae a convent, 'twould hamper ye tae return tae society aft'r yore kidnapping by ootlaws, if anaone saw ye."

Her relief was too great for her to care that Reticent Robin was practically sneering at her. She didn't care that he'd probably regard her as a hypocrite—he wasn't trying to send her away!

"I'll go with you."

* * *

Robin's first thought when he saw Marian for the first time out of the corner of his eye, back in the tavern, late the night before he'd met her face-to-face, had been that she was absolutely gorgeous, and that it was a damn shame, since she was far too sheltered to be anything but a runaway—and a noble one, at that. No bar wench was that shy, and no girl her age who wasn't a noble would've gotten to keep her virginity for so long. As it was, she was an old maid in the eyes of society, unwed and unbedded at so advanced an age.

He'd been right, as it turned out—she was a runaway lady. He couldn't imagine a worse fate then the one that Much had slyly informed him had been arranged for her: marriage to the Sheriff. It was no wonder she'd run. The Sheriff…Robin shuddered at the thought of Marian bound to him before law and God. The Sheriff and his late brother had sprung from the same evil mold, as far as Robin was concerned.

Save for the beautiful part, though, he'd completely underestimated her. Courageous, kind, intelligent, stubborn as hell, and opinionated…She had shed her dress, and her timidity, and donned men's clothes with every indication of glee, thrilled with the freedom that the forest offered. Meekness had no place in her any longer, as if her kidnapping had consigned it forever.

God, she was prefect, an angel with tawny hair of every shade of brown and red and gold, and eyes the color of the borderlands lochs. Her figure alone would turn most women green with envy, though she no longer resembled the milk-and-water miss that had lingered even in the tavern. Strength had replaced weakness, but she wasn't hard, either, and the combination brought a vicious dryness to Robin's mouth that he both recognized and resented. Robin could barely look at her these days without a keening discomfort.

The Scot had never realized what a possessive person he was, had never truly cared enough about a woman to have to realize. Jealousy was not something he was particularly familiar with—and shame for the jealously was never far behind.

Even her smell drove him to distraction, he raged silently to himself, perversely watching from across the camp as she prepared for the long day ahead of the group that was going out. A whiff of her scent tickled his nose, swept over by the brisk breeze. It nearly drew a groan from him. The scent was so purely her; clean and warm and sweet; that he could hardly stand it.

Her…aura? Would that be the right way to describe it? Marian's aura. It was as though she could suck up all the pain and bitterness around her, and make it brighter, more positive. He could feel it from here, across the camp. Robin had never encountered someone that could do such a thing before—Marian was unquestionably special.

He wouldn't let her get hurt—he couldn't, he realized, savagely knotting the strip of leather that held back his hair, and winced when he felt the pain of his hair being tugged. It would be like destroying the sun, to allow the woman to be hurt in any way. Robin knew without a single doubt that he would do whatever it took to protect her. He wasn't eager for the assignment—he was not, by far, the best guardian. Failure was a horrible concept—and it had already struck two times. What would happen if he chanced it a third time?

It was a bright day, and Sherwood shone emerald green, dappling the ground below with colored light. The forest was pleasantly cool in the hot summer, and the six outlaws were ready for anything. Four horses trotted down the road. Never did their riders expect to be beset upon by brigands and thieves, but beset upon they were. Silently as the sunlight, the outlaws dropped on them.

Marian's intended prey put up a good fight, having been fallen upon inexpertly. He was a large man, not nearly as tall as Robin or Little John, but far less willowy than the first, and more than Marian's match in sheer brute strength. The horse pranced nervously nearby while he and Marian rolled around, violently disturbing the dirt of the road. His greater strength was quickly revealing itself, and she quickly found herself fighting to remain unpinned to the ground, while the man snarled obscenities at her.

Her salvation came in the form of a sharply interfering boot making contact painfully with her opponent's ribs, drawing a startled yelp from the man. Swiftly, the man was pulled off her, and rendered coldly unconscious with a vicious blow to the back of his neck.

"They git ruder evra time. Did 'is mither even bother tae try an' teach 'im as a bairn?" Robin asked, shaking his head in disgust, and let the brute fall to the ground with a thud, trying to cool the sudden blaze of protective instincts that had made him leap into the fray.

"I-is he…dead?" She asked hesitantly, eyeing the still body.

"Nay, jus' unconscious." Without thinking, the Scot offered Marian a hand to help her up with. She took it, and Robin carefully hauled her to her feet. Hastily, he took back his hand, feeling his body react in what could end up being an extremely embarrassing way. It was fortunate that his _fheilidh_i would conceal the lower half of his body, but really, couldn't he go one day—just _one_, damnit—without wanting to touch her? No, apparently he couldn't, despite his supposed self-control. Irritation made him snappish.

"An' ye. Next time, ye'll take someone more yer own bloody size, damn't. Ah'll no' be 'ere tae save ye evra time." Her look of open-mouthed outrage was nearly comical. Ignoring her irate sputtering, he knelt beside the man he had rendered unconscious and tied him with his hands tightly behind his back. After completing that task, Robin turned to the still conscious and tightly gagged Sir Theodore of Mayfair, grinning in his wolfish way. The knowledge of the good that the gold could, and would do for his outlaws and the people of the midlands cheered him up considerably.

"Naow, mah good sirrah…" he inquired of the terrified Norman in a sardonic drawl, "wot 'ave ye in yon saddlebags?"

* * *

When they had returned to camp that evening, after leading their blindfolded victims to a different portion of the road, and taking the long way back to avoid any chance of being followed, the outlaws were met with something of a feast, put together by the collaborated efforts of Maud, Anne, George, and Isaac.

Robin blinked at the amount of food prepared. "'Tis a day early tae be celebratin' Midsummer," the Scot remarked, confusion coloring his words.

"It's Saint John's Dayii, Robin—we're in England, remember?" Much murmured, elbowing him in the ribs to make him move out of the others' way. The Scot nodded and moved aside to let his outlaws past, recalling belatedly. He still wasn't used to celebrating on the eve of Midsummer, even though this was the second year he'd spent in England since his mother's death—in Scotland, the merrymaking started on the day of and lasted 'til there was work that could no longer wait. In England, for whatever reason, the celebration was the day before, and called Saint John's Day. The celebrating continued to on the next day, and then stopped there. His mother had raised him according to the dictates of the Catholic Church, in deference to his father, but his family in Scotland had held to their pagan traditions, and often considered the Catholics unimaginative for their conservative ways.

"Pard'n me, then. Ah kin never keep 'em straight." Robin didn't say much more on the subject, but grinned ruefully when Johnny teased him lightly about forgetting, replying that he would learn. Eventually.

Marian, watching the Scot, and nursing her vexation, got the distinct impression over the course of the night that Robin had no great affection for the Christian religion. He still believed in God, of course, but he appeared far more comfortable with the pagan beliefs of the northern Highlands, for when pressed, he told wonderful stories of the Celtic heroes and of the multitude of sprites and spirits that roamed the Highlands. The flickering campfire gave atmosphere to the stories, and Robin was, of course, an excellent storyteller. The food was delicious, there was a heavy black pudding, gravy; dumplings, well-roasted venison and rabbit, and Maud had outdone herself with mincemeat pies to top the evening off. Someone had invited the good Friar Tuck, a man of God who lived in a small woodland chapel not far away, who had befriended the outlaws early on in their struggle for survival in Sherwood. He was a round, bearded little fellow without a single hair on the top of his head, a chest like a barrel and a sarcastic sense of humor that hid a rock-solid belief in the good of man.

All in all, it was a wonderfully pleasant evening; everyone full of chuckles and the playful banter flung back and forth like a merry shuttlecock, lightening every face it touched. Shifts for watch were still taken, but nobody complained too much. Will, Anthony, and Johnny brought out yet another surprise—they had procured a generous amount of ale from the innkeeper at the establishment where Marian used to work. It was a fine brew, everyone admitted, and was well received. Toasts were given—Much offering one to outlaw friendship, Will one to the pleasures of drink, Johnny to continued good fortune—and on and on, round the circle of fellows till, rather surprisingly, Robin offered one to his Majesty King Richard the Lionheart—to which all the King's n'er-do-well subjects quaffed with perplexing reverence. Disconcertingly, he had stared right at Marian when he honored the Lionheart, but that odd attention was soon forgotten amidst the gales of raucous singing and merriment.

What was more worrying to her than him possibly discovering her family was the growing awareness that she had around him. The fact that in his presence she felt happy and safe terrified her. What manner of woman was she, half in love with someone she was constantly angry with?

Pushing it from her mind, she threw herself into the revelry. By then, several of the outlaws had started—drunkenly—singing a song (that was later spread by unknown means to large parts of the area) proclaiming the bad feelings toward the Prince. Fortunately, it was amusing enough to raise Marian's flagging spirits. It quickly gave way to a somewhat heated debate on politics, and no one noticed that Robin's eyes had not once left Marian.

i

_Fheilidh_: A _fheilidh_ is a Scottish garment rather like a kilt. Also known as the belted plaid, which is much like a kilt, but fastened around the waist in layers with a belt, with the extra pinned over the shoulder, or allowed to hand down around the legs on a cold day.

ii June 24th: Saint John the Baptist's feast day. It celebrates the day of St. John's birth, because to the Roman Catholics that was more important than the day of his martyrdom, August 29


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Sherwood Forest, England. Early July_

"Wot are ye called, lad? Ye an' the lady look as tho' ye've no' eaten fer a week." Robin regarded the couple that sat at his hearth, eating like a pair starved lions. The man was young, not much older than one-and-twenty, and the girl was younger than Marian. Robin had found them stumbling along, lost in the wood. An improvised minstrel and his new bride, they'd been evicted from their home by the cruel heir of a nearby barony, or so the boy said when asked.

"I'm Allen A'dale, and this is Anne, my wife. We're very grateful to you. Who are you, sir?" He finally replied, having emptied his bowl. Maud took it, and Anne's, and refilled them with a blank face, then added more water to the stew silently. She'd heard every word off their lips and her leader's too, and she was torn between sympathy, and the concern that they wouldn't adjust to a fugitive's life if nothing else could be found for them. A lord might have hundreds of servants before hiring a live-in minstrel, and she knew Robin knew it.

Robin eyed him, not answering. "A'fore Ah answer ye, tell me why ye've wandered intae Sherwood so far."

Allen flushed, while Anne looked up almost pleadingly. "Please, sir, could you tell us where we could find, um, Robin Hood?" The woman asked hesitantly. She was quiet by nature, pale and withdrawing. Robin wondered if this girl, like Marian, would reveal a spine of tempered steel. Somehow, he rather doubted it.

"Prob'ly—Depends, ye see. Ah wouldna want anything tae happen tae mah friends if Ah were tae tell ye. Wot's yer purpose wit' them?" Robin asked, his polite tone gentling what could have been a threat from another man. Much grinned at him from behind the young couple; where he was seated amid the tangled stone and wood of the Great Oak.

"Hey, _Little John!_ Come see! _Robin's_ found some fresh meat!"

Little John ambled over, and looked at them. "Aye, _Much_? Hmm…they're a bit skinny. Get _Robin_ to fatten 'em up more." He walked away again, humor dancing in his eyes. Robin glared at Much, resentment obvious on his face.

"W-what?" came the startled question, their eyes widening as they misinterpreted completely the point of the exchange.

Robin stared in disbelief, and then groaned. Of all the…he'd been accused of many things, but never for being a cannibal before. A headache was starting to form at his temples. Irritably, he raked his fingers through his hair, pushing back the strands of cool flame that got in his eyes.

"Nay, nay. Tha's no' wot they mean. Much," He glared at the culprit again, "'as an interesting sense o' humor. Liddle John obliged 'im by playin' along. Anaway—wot did ye want wit' me an' mine?"

"You? Um, n-nothing. You see, we were looking for Robin Hood—to join his band of merry men…"

"Aye, Ah ken tha'. Ye've found 'im. Ah'm Robin. Tho' Ah'm none tae shore Ah've a band o' merry men wit' me—more like a pack o' imps. But why do ye think Ah'm going tae let ye join us? A minstrel is verra little use tae a band o' ootlaws."

They blinked at him, trying to understand him through the thick Scottish accent. He nearly growled.

"Lighten up, Robin!" Much scolded lightheartedly. "Let 'em stay. T'isn't like they've elsewhere to go!"

Robin scowled. And now Much was trying to guilt him into doing things he didn't want to do. _Again._ "Much, if ye're goin' tae complain aboot how Ah run the camp, ye're welcome tae run it instead. Ah'm no in the mood fer mutiny, understand?"

Much blithely ignored his leader's black expression. "T'aint mutiny and you know it. You're just grumpy 'cause the Sheriff's been after our tails more than usual."

"A fairly good reason tae be tetchy, Ah'd think," Robin muttered, turning back to the young couple, forcing his expression from irate to harried, so as not to terrify the nervous pair.

"Look, we'll give ye shelter 'ere 'ntil Ah kin find ye somewhere else tae live an' work. Tha's all Ah kin offer, ye understand. There be tae many people 'ere as t'is."

They nodded, and made their promises. Robin pointedly handed them over to Much and Little John, muttering something that may have been as easily a compliment as a curse in Gaelic, before walking away. He contemplated going to find Marian, talking—well, arguing, if he were to be honest with himself—with her always made him…not feel better, necessarily, but it gave him something new to think about (which was generally just how much of an ass he could be). He was playing with fire, he knew, letting her get closer to him; inviting her to get to know him (ass that he was); and he couldn't resist it. It wasn't as…physical…anymore. He wanted to know her as well as bed her…

_Nay! Dangerous thinkin' there, lad. Dinna go there, Robin, ye'll no' come back wit'oot scars. Best just tae leave tha' sleepin' dog lie._

* * *

Marian had a free evening to herself—a rare enough occasion. She used it to slip off to a small waterfall she'd found that was far enough from the camp to ensure privacy. The weather was warm enough to allow for it, so Marian tried to get there as often as possible before autumn and winter made it too cold.

The waterfall could only barely be called that; a stream running off over a small outcrop of rocks in the side of a hill, into a shallow depression that came up to her knees before flowing on. It was in a beautiful little glade though, and the water wasn't as frigid as a deeper stream would have been. Marian was lucky to have found it. It didn't seem like any of the others had found it—or if they had, they didn't use it so late in the evenings.

Tonight was one of those evenings that she could escape. It wasn't quite dark yet. She probably had about three hours of light left—enough to bathe and wash her clothes. Marian smiled at the thought of wearing clean clothes. The life of an outlaw was largely enjoyable, but she did miss clean clothes. She slipped through the forest, carrying her bow, the quiver over her shoulder. Tonight she could wash her hair, something she couldn't do very often, because of how much effort and soap it used.

Still smiling, Marian burst through the briars that surrounded the small waterfall.

To be greeted with the disturbing sight of Robin standing on the opposite bank, wearing very few clothes and sopping wet. He looked up, his red hair dripping and falling in molten copper strands around his face and past his shoulders. Robin wore only his _trews_—a kind of long trousers—and only barely. They were unfastened and clung loosely to his angular hips. His body was impressively hard-looking, water clinging to the planes of his chest in mortifyingly appealing ways. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another, both too surprised to do anything more.

Marian felt heat rush to her face, knew with horrible certainty that she was turning bright red. "Sorry!" She turned quickly, intent on fleeing back to camp. She was positive that she'd never been more embarrassed in her life.

"'Old up, lass. Ye needn't run away," Robin called her back, laughter in his voice. "Ah'm done. Ah'll be gone inna moment." The outlaw waited until Marian turned back shyly. The pants were fastened now, Marian noticed with something like relief. She came out of the briar bush, a blush still bright on her face, determinedly not looking at him.

"Wot are ye embarrassed aboot? Ah'm the one who was walked in on, aft'r all," Robin sounded amused by her mortification. Of course he was—it was just like him, the ass, to find her humiliation funny, but unfortunately for her, Robin's obvious enjoyment only made her blush all the more furiously.

"Relax, lass," he said kindly. "Ah'm no' goin' tae drop mah pants."

He chuckled at the shocked, incensed look on her face, and pulled on his boots. The Scot shook his head one last time, to rid his long hair of water as best as possible, then pulled on the tunic, thankfully hiding the lines and angles of his body behind a veil of cloth. She found that she could breathe again, though she'd been unaware of holding her breath. It only made her angrier, her reaction to him. He reached for the ever-present tartan, and had the daunting, complicated swathe of it wrapped it around his body with baffling efficiency, before belting on the long dagger and slipped the smaller on into his boot.

"Ah'll leave ye tae yore business, then. Dinna stay oot tae long." Robin said, still choking back laughter, and disappeared into the brush, bow in hand. Marian waited, fuming, until she was sure he was far enough away to strip and enter the water. Oddly enough, she trusted the outlaw not to do anything as lecherous as peek. She couldn't, however, get her mind off the fact that until very recently, it had been Robin under the water. Robin…naked as the day he was born. She blushed involuntarily as the image appeared before her eyes, unbidden, and used a word that would have made the Scot's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and perverse delight. Marian had already known that the Scot's body was nothing but muscle and bone and sinew, very different from the men at court, but she hadn't realized that the sight of a man's body could have such an effect on her.

Despite her determination not to think about it, the image of the half-naked outlaw leader seemed to be just as determined to worm its way into her mind. Robin was an attractive man, she finally allowed to herself. Attractive, yes, but also irritable and curt, and it would do her well to remember that.

_And you love hearing him laugh_, a wicked part of her commented snidely.

_Nonsense_, Marian retorted silently; _I've never heard him laugh before, so of course I was curious_. With that, she banished the nasty little voice, who had begun to snicker mockingly, and continued washing her long hair. Robin, however, would not be banished so easily from her mind and the cool water did very little to relax her this time.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_Sherwood Forest, England. Late August._

"A lad, ye say?" The outlaws' leader asked Much and Little John. He'd just walked up, and heard them speculating. "Where?"

"About three-quarters of a mile southeast. Heading this way," Much added thoughtfully.

Robin scowled. "Wot's the look o' him?"

"Frustrated, put-upon, and tired. From what I can tell, though, he's an honest-lookin' lad." Much was good at reading people, so Robin took his word on it.

He turned to the giant beside him, tilting his head up. "Liddle John? Wot say ye?"

"I say we go and greet the boy, and find out his intentions."

Robin nodded his agreement. Anyone who stumbled their way this close to Ard Darach was definitely dangerous, and quite possibly useful.

"I'll bring food," Much proposed. "The boy looks half-starved."

The Scottish outlaw sighed. "Dinna they always? A'right, Ah'll go an' take a look. Nay ana need tae invite trouble."

He shook his head bemusedly when they also slung on quivers and lifted their bows.

"D'ye think tha' Ah'll no' be able tae deal wit' a lad 'alf me own size, then?" The outlaw asked dryly.

Much looked at him indignantly. "I'll be coming so that you don't send him on his way a'fore he's managed to say a word."

One of Robin's eyebrows arched with a mildly irritated curiosity. "Oh, aye? Is tha' all?" The Scot shook his head in exasperation.

"An' ye?" he inquired of Little John.

"I come to observe, and if need be, toss the lad in a stream to cool his temper."

"That makes it all the more prudent that I accompany you, then," Much declared righteously. "When Little John tosses him in, I'll be there to fish him out and explain that not all of us have these queer inclinations to throw folk in water."

The Scot sighed again, looking weary. He was exhausted, hungry, gritty with dust from the road and was in no mood to deal with someone who apparently had the same complaints, and presented a security threat. "Nothin' Ah say will stop ye, will it?"

They simply shook their heads in response.

"Ah was afraid o' tha'.

They intercepted the boy, coming from a point to the right of where the camp actually lay. The lad held a truly enormous bow, one that nearly matched Robin's in size. The boy tensed, knuckles standing out white against the wood, though he didn't move to draw an arrow. He shifted, his thin, gawky body leaning away as though to flee. His face, on the other hand, was defiant, daring them to try and send him away.

"Good morrow, friend! Come you in peace?" Much called, letting his companions observe what he'd seen earlier on his watch: the coltish body, with the stolen Norman clothes that bagged on it, hair that seemed to have seen the wrong end of a pair of sheep shears recently, the gigantic bow that had also probably been stolen, and the half-terrified, half-hopeful expression on his face. Another run-away noble, Robin mused, if his lily-pale skin and straight posture meant anything, though one far less prepared than Marian had been. That bothered him—one runaway was plenty. Two was asking for trouble.

"In peace, if you be Saxon. Are you?" He demanded, eyeing Robin doubtfully, eyes lingering on the plaid tartan and the red hair that marked him a Scot.

"Aye, or close enough. Are ye? Ah canna tell, wit' yon clothes. There's nay a proper Saxon housewife who cut yon blouse fer ye in this area, Ah'll wager. Naeone aroound 'ere has the extra cloth tae waste."

The lad flushed angrily and glared at the Scot. "I'm Saxon—more Saxon than you, I'm sure!"

Robin shrugged, obviously unaffected by the accusatory words. "Per'aps, lad, per'aps no'. But Ah'm no' the one in stolen Norman clothes." He drew the _sgian dubh _from the sheath in his boot and offered it to him. "'ere—take care o' yer seams while we provide the meal." The outlaws pulled out bread, venison, and the last of the previous year's cider. A loud rip and a satisfied sigh were greeted with chuckles, while the extra cloth went a long way to being formed into a makeshift belt that only accented the lad's scrawny frame. The dagger was returned to its owner and the food shared.

"What brings you so far into Sherwood, lad?" Much inquired.

The boy's grey eyes flashed. "I don't see what business of it is of yours."

The outlaws' leader hid a grin. "Wheel, ye _are_ eatin' our food an' sharing' our comp'ny…" he drawled, drawing a perverse amusement from teasing the boy. Robin admired the lad's pluck, or his impertinence, though it was getting damned annoying trying to get him to tell them anything.

The boy stopped eating immediately at his words.

"Eat, boy, before Much eats the rest. He eats enough for three to keep that mouth of his going," Little John admonished. The lad obviously hadn't eaten in the last day or so, and the outlaws ate little of what they'd brought, insuring that he would get the lion's share. It wouldn't do for the poor boy to pass out from hunger.

"I do not! I don't eat nearly as much as you, Little John! I say you eat for three—that is why you are so confoundedly large!"

"Much and Little John?" The boy inquired softly, as though speaking to himself. "Those are some of the names I seek…"

_No' a lack-wit, this one._ Robin thought with mild satisfaction. He had no use for a dull-witted runaway Norman, if he was going to take in a second one. And it did appear that he was going to be taking this stripling with the too-big clothes in.

"I begin to think it is you I shall dunk, Much, to save my ears," the giant retorted.

"I offer my assistance, sir Little John," The lad put forward with a grin. "My ears, too, grow weary."

Much puffed out his chest. "You little fiend! Did no one teach you to respect your elders?" They could all tell he wasn't angry. There was too much good humor in his eyes for anger.

"Enough, Much, a'fore Ah decide tae help 'em dunk ye. Ah'll dunk ye, an' hold ye under, mind, since ye hurt mah ears tae. Back tae our young friend 'ere." Robin redirected their attention deftly, in a far better humor than he'd been in earlier.

"If _he_ is Much, and _he_ is Little John…" the boy started, nodding to the appropriate outlaw in turn, "Then you must be members of the famous Robin Hood's band." He leapt to his feet again. "That means _you_," he stared at Robin, "are another."

Robin shrugged, neither denying nor accepting. "Per'aps. Ah'm still waitin' for yore name, lad." The lad paled alarmingly, grey eyes going wide. "_A_ name, laddie. Somethin' tae call ye, tha's all," Robin clarified quickly, as reluctant to see the lad faint at his feet in fear as he had been to see him collapse with hunger.

"Gabri—el." The boy's face lit up suddenly. "Gabriel. Call me Gabe."

Robin inclined his head, deciding to ignore the lad's hesitation. "Gabe, then." The Scot indicated the unfinished food. "Sit doawn, lad. Finish yore meal. Yore tae young tae be missin' meals."

"I am not!" Gabe remained standing, a look of righteous fury settling on his face. "My skill will speak for itself—my age is of no consequence!"

There was a long, considering pause as the outlaws regarded him, and the redundancy of what he had just said, as a blush crept stealthily up his thin neck.

"Thirteen," Little John concluded. "And hungry with it."

"Nah…twelve." Much said. "A starving twelve."

Robin looked at the strong-looking, well-developed hands that gripped the bow, the refined bones in the face. "Fifteen a' the most," he allowed grudgingly. "An' prolly goin' tae eat us oot o' hearth an' home."

"I'm seventeen!" He cried in indignation, "That's it—Stand! I'll prove my worth! Pick a target!"

The Scot rose to his feet slowly, with a sigh. If it would quiet the lad once and for all… He gestured to a tree a fair distance away that had a knot in the trunk that was large enough to use as a target. "Will tha' do?"

Gabe growled something unintelligible, and pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He shifted several times, making sure his posture was perfect before he finally brought up the bow and loosed the arrow. The arrow flew straight, hitting the knot a bit to the left. It was a surprisingly good shot, especially considering the bow's size in comparison to its owner. Even Gabe was surprised by the accuracy of the shot, his jaw dropping open with shock.

"T'was a good hit, lad," Robin praised him, figuring that he might be able to pull the bow twice more before his arms gave out on him. The Scottish outlaw drew an arrow from his own quiver, and with a fluid movement, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow flying. It thumped into the tree barely two centimeters from Gabe's arrow, hitting dead center.

"Naow kin we eat in peace? Ye've nothin' tae dispute anamore, have ye?" Robin inquired, before bounding over the stream and loping easily to the tree. He returned moments later with the two arrows, giving them a cursory look-over for any damage. Gabe gawked at him, awe and horror on his thin face. He nearly flinched when Robin raised an inquiring eyebrow at him, and dropped his gaze to the leaf-carpeted floor.

"I thank you for the food, gentlemen. I'm afraid I should take my leave now," he said miserably, addressing his shoes—and shoes they were, a Norman gentlemen's, stolen and as ill-fitting as the rest.

Robin's eyebrows shot up. "Why should ye do tha'?" he inquired.

"I lost," the boy replied, bringing his head up to look the outlaw in the eye. "You're him, aren't you? Robin Hood."

Behind them, Much gave a snort of laughter.

"If you truly thought that you faced Robin, you knew that you wouldn't win," the short outlaw said, making the lad blush crimson in embarrassment.

"I thought he was Will Scarlet," Gabe admitted in a tiny voice. "At first at least. His hair…" he trailed off miserably, while Much laughed even harder. Even Little John had cracked a smile. This wasn't the first time the Scot had been mistaken for Will.

"Ye shot well, considerin' tha' bow is three times tae big fer ye." Robin said, sending Much a quelling look. "Enough, Much. Ye've made yore point. Aye, mah hair's red an' the lad made a mistake—nay reason tae give yourself over tae a fit. Lad," he turned back to Gabe with a slow grin "we call 'im 'Scarlet' 'cause 'e came tae us wearin' a red tunic, an' no' one o' us caught 'im a'fore 'e was right atop o' us."

He let that sink in, and glanced at the sky, gauging the amount of daylight they had left.

"Naow, le's away. Maud'll welcome the chance tae put some meat on the lad's bones. Quietly, if ye kin," he muttered, when Gabe promptly snapped a twig in two with an echoing snap. "Yon Sheriff does 'ave aspirations for our 'eads ona platter, if 'e kin get 'em."

Back at the camp, Maud did indeed welcome the chance to feed Gabe, tut-tutting over his skinny body and deftly herding the other outlaws out of her way, rather like a mother cat with her kittens. Much chuckled at Gabe's obvious discomfort, and assured him that he would get used to it.

Gabe was put to shifting dirt almost immediately, widening the burrow-like sleeping quarters to make room for himself. Robin and several others were called away to rob a Baron St. Clair—a more unpleasant gentleman none of them had dealt with for quite some time. They returned late in the afternoon, straggling in at different times, depending on which route they had taken to return home. Dinnertime was fast approaching when Robin finally called Gabe away from his digging, to join the rest of the gang at the fire.

He joined them hesitantly, silent from exhaustion, but accepted the food eagerly, and nearly bolted it. A soft hiss left him when a chunk of rough, dark bread bread came in contact with the raw blisters on his hands, ones that every outlaw could sympathize with.

He looked nervous, Robin noted, as he watched the newest member of the band, like he could leap ten feet any way at any moment. Not a bad thing, certainly—he was an outlaw, and in the company of outlaws—but he was going to exhaust himself that way. He would need mellowing, certainly.

The last few of the outlaws that had been with Robin on the day's raid straggled in then, dirty and travel-worn, Marian among them.

"What did we miss? Is there any food left?" Anthony inquired.

"I heard that we gained a new member," Marian put in, settling herself in a nook between tree and boulder. "Where is he? Or is it she?"

Robin looked toward Gabe, prepared to perform introductions, only to discover that the lad had thrown himself bodily for the bushes seconds before. "Wheel, he was here jus' a moment ago. Ah suppose ye'll have tae meet Gabe later. It seems tha' our food an' 'is digestion dinna like one another. Poor lad."

"Gabe?" Marian inquired, a frown on her face, her voice odd.

Robin shot her a questioning look. "Aye. Gabriel. 'e didna give me a las' name. No' more than a stripling, an' nob a' tha'. Why?"

Marian shook her head. "No, it's nothing. There must be hundreds of Gabriels in England—makes sense that one would find us eventually."

Robin shrugged, wondering why she cared. An old acquaintance, maybe? "Ah suppose. Liddle John, when our young friend emerges, tell 'im ye'll be takin' him huntin'. 'E can'na dig for a day or two a' least, 'is hands need tae heal."

"The tender skin of the gentry, born and raised," Much remarked to Little John. "It should be interesting, breaking in a nob fresh from the nursery."

"There's a fresh herd daown near the crossroads—see if the lad kin shoot a movin' target," Robin continued, ignoring Much blithely as he wolfed the rest of his dinner, before standing to go on watch. "An' fer Chris'sake, git 'im a smaller bow."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Sherwood Forest, England. Mid September_

Marian rocked an infant back and forth; soothing the screaming, colicky babe they called Jordan. Jordan's mother had been frantic when Marian had taken the little mite from her out of pity; with three children, one of which was the infant Marian held, and a pair of twins, two hell-bent three-year-olds, it was understandable that she would be feeling the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. The children had finally broken down from the strain of running from their father's abuse with their young mother in the middle of Sherwood. The mother, Alice, was a girl not much older than Marian herself, and she had looked as miserable as her children, lost deep in the forest, without food or money, when Will, Robin, and Little John had come across her. They had, naturally, helped her, no questions asked.

Now, two days later, they were relaxing a bit in the safety of Ard Darach. Little John and Much had taken themselves off to check the snares that Much was so proud of, as they knew little of babes, crying or otherwise. The other men had made themselves equally scarce. Maud and Anne were helping Alice bathe the twins, having successfully calmed them down, while Marian baby-watched.

Robin winced at the thin, angry wail he could hear from outside the camp. He was well aware of the situation, and he had sympathized with the girl enough to take Alice in for a few days, instead of sending her on her way immediately. Ard Darach was well used to passers-through. They would often help the beleaguered folks that found their way close enough; giving extra coin, food, blankets, or anything that could be spared. Occasionally the passers-through stayed, deciding that toughing it out with the outlaws was preferable to being elsewhere. As long as they passed Robin's scrutiny, they were welcomed. Robin, they learned quickly, accepted no one lightly. It had been clear immediately that _this_ group would not be among those that stayed.

Sighing, Robin walked in, thinking to have a talk with the young mother. A crying child's noise could carry for miles, and the Sheriff had been fairly active recently—sending his men out more often and in force. Colic was colic, but there had to be some way of calming th— Robin paused, mid-thought, surprised that Marian was quieting the babe instead of Alice. Intrigued, he slipped into the camp as she turned away from him, still rocking the infant, and leaned against a nearby outcrop of rock, unable to keep from watching this Madonna his Marian made. Apparently she was doing a better job of calming Jordan, considering the child's discomfort, than his pale, jittery mother could.

_Wait a momen'. Jus' when ha' she become 'mah' Marian?_ He wondered, ill at ease with the possessive thought, before pushing it out of his mind for easier observations. If that made him a coward, so be it.

Damn it all, but she was stunning. She shouldn't have been beautiful—not in men's clothing, with dirt smudged on her face and leaves in her hair—but she was. He fought down the desire that, as usual, urged him to tug her close and keep her there. The babe she held merely made it worse. Marian may not have been Jordan's mother, but obvious maternal instinct shown bright on her lovely face, giving her a warm, friendly glow. It was right, somehow, that the child magnified those qualities in her, qualities he knew her to embody. She'd tried to befriend him, despite his less than polite rebuttals, hadn't she?

The babe was asleep in Marian's arms when she finally felt the outlaw's stare on her back. She turned slowly, so as not to wake the child in her arms. There was Robin, leaning casually against a boulder that helped make Ard Darach. She tried to fight down the blush that rose immediately to her face, and nearly succeeded. He was watching her with evident interest gleaming in his eyes.

She was too much an innocent to recognize the heat of lust from his gaze alone, not when he'd given no other sign of it.

The Scot kept his distance, as always. He never got too near her physically if he could help it, and rarely spoke more than a few sentences to her of his own volition. Robin wouldn't even sleep in the shelter that the others used, sleeping instead in the boughs of the Great Oak—rain or shine. Damnably stubborn man.

She supposed he'd never really liked her, indulging a rare fit of melancholy; God knows how much trouble she had given him in her earliest days of outlawing. But still, wasn't that taking it a bit far, to refuse to even share shelter with her? Not that she was reading too much into it or anything, she assured herself, but it irritated her, understandably, that he might be avoiding her to that degree. It also caused a curious ache to form under her breastbone, which in turn irritated her more.

Who was he, this rough outlaw, to command so much of her attention? He was nothing to her, merely an annoyance. Or so she tried to convince herself.

He was looking at her quite oddly today, she noted, forcing her thoughts onto a new route. He went without the disdainful mask today, allowing some of the warmth she knew he was capable of through. Probably curious as to why she was caring for Alice's baby, Marian decided, shooting him another glance, trying to gauge his expression. He'd taken an immediate shine to the young children of hers.

If it hadn't been so completely out of character for him, she would've thought there was a certain wistfulness to his appearance; but she wasn't close enough to see his eyes clearly, and the sun was shining directly in her face, making it difficult to see details in the shadows. Besides, this was _Reticent Robin_, she thought spitefully. He wasn't one for wistfulness.

Then she winced. That was more spiteful than she was comfortable with.

_Swee' Christ's bones_, Robin thought, his breath catching in his throat, while his heart took this chance to skip a beat, and then started to pound against his breastbone as though it would fight its way out of his chest. Heat pooled below his stomach, and a familiar ache returned. In response, his teeth clenched with suppressed need.

Marian had unknowingly walked into a beam of sunlight.

It fell around her like a golden mantle. She was like his mother's pagan Goddess, Brigit; fire and fervor, all wrapped together in a warrior goddess's body. The sun had turned her chestnut hair to molten copper with gold and bronze streaks flitting through it. The silky mass of it fell to her hips, bound back loosely with a tie that had slipped down so tendrils of hair curled around her face. Her eyes sparkled with some inner humor that Robin found irresistible.

She held the infant with gentle, secure arms—arms he knew could draw and hold an arrow on a bow with a forty pound pull for upwards of fifteen minutes. Marian was tall for a female, and the men's clothing she wore only enhanced that, hugging her curves like a lover; with full, sensual lips, big sea-blue eyes had were framed with eyelashes that currently looked like flaming veils over cool depths…He shook himself mentally in disbelief. He was waxing poetic—and he didn't even particularly _like_ poetry. Besides, this was not the time to rhapsodize about her eyelashes—certainly not with exceptionally bad poetry, at that. _When, if no' now?_ A nagging part of him wondered. Now was the perfect time, especially considering what Brigit was the matron of—song, fire, and women.

_Aye_, Robin decided, ignoring his self-directed jibe at her poetry-inspiring eyelashes, she was goddess-incarnate, at least for him. And with his ill luck, he'd would only get burnt by her…as if that weren't enough, he was making a fool of himself, if a pounding heart and too-fast breathing was anything to go by. He once again thanked any listening gods for the _fheilidh_ he wore, hiding embarrassing reactions from view. Her gaze was inquiring, a lifted eyebrow made him stand up straight and go to her.

_Like a moth tae flame_, he thought with a touch of bitterness, not exactly thrilled with his beautiful obsession.

The image that had haunted him for months now flashed before his mind's eye, making him hiss in a sharp breath. Her having come across him at that damned waterfall had ceased to be even moderately amusing—now it was torture. Imagining her naked and wet (instead of merely naked, as he had before), as he had been doing at odd intervals ever since then certainly wasn't helping cool his outrageous libido. He'd avoided the waterfall for a while after that, and would look for another as soon as possible. Certainly, he'd never think so innocently of waterfalls again.

"Ye like children, dinna ye?" Robin asked the obvious question, to force his mind from his earlier thoughts, knowing the answer was yes. No one could fake that look of utter wonder. She looked up at him; for all her height, he was still taller by a good half a head.

"Yes. They're adorable," she murmured. "Don't you think so? So small and soft and they have the wisest eyes." She was talking softly, not to wake the babe.

"Mm." It was all he could say. The not-so-sudden urge to kiss her was far too great for any sort of clever reply. He forced himself to look at the babe, forced himself to ignore breasts just as full and soft as her lips with an effort that could be described only as Herculean.

Marian gazed up at Robin, memorizing his face as he looked down at the little boy. The outlaw had joined her in the sunlight, and his red hair blazed like fire. Even his eyelashes were a fiery red-gold. His eyes were the clear level blue that could cut right to one's soul, if he chose. Yet she noticed with a sort of shock that there was pain there. Robin's mouth was neither frowning nor smiling, but now that she'd noticed the ache that seemed to be simmering quietly beneath his calm façade, she couldn't avoid seeing it. Robin's blue eyes were deep, and they held several emotions. Longing, a closely leashed hunger, surprise, and…a kind of angry desolation.

Why? She wondered. What was it that had put such an expression in his eyes?

He looked up for a second, noticing her scrutiny. His eyebrows knit, then he turned away, standing so his shoulder was to her, muttering to himself in Gaelic. Robin frowned at the ground, rather like one of the twins after a scolding, she thought, frustrated and angry. At her? she wondered. Or was she simply a convenient target?

Whatever he was thinking, he was giving her an excellent view of his profile—and she was woman enough to appreciate what a nice profile it was. Robin's bone structure was enough to make any master sculptor weep for joy, with his high cheekbones and narrow face; his skin was smooth, except for his chin, with its short growth of whiskers on it and a thin, crescent shaped scar on his jaw. Robin had a nice body as well; one that was lean, slender yet strong, without an ounce of extra flesh anywhere, and sinews that stood out powerfully on his archer's hands. As if that weren't enough, he exuded a purely male aura of confidence that had others looking to him for answers.

If his manner was in the least child-like, his body was most assuredly not.

She hefted the baby carefully for a more comfortable grip. Jordan was small, but grew heavy after a while, especially when he fussed. Robin turned back to her without a word, and took him easily, plucking the boy from her arms while she stood frozen, as though lightening struck. He moved with the sure grace of someone who knew what they were doing, and supported the tiny being's entire body with his hand and forearm, tucking him carefully against his ribs, bringing the other hand up to guard against him rolling away unexpectedly.

"Ah'll hold 'im fer a bit, if ye like," the thief told her while she gaped at him.

"I…" She could only blink at him for a moment. Then, finally, she snapped out of her Robin-induced stupor. "If you wouldn't mind—I'll be right back, I promise," She said, dashing away. She'd needed to escape to the privy all morning, and at the moment, she needed to escape him.

Robin stared after her retreating form with an expression on his face that would've surprised anyone who knew him, and would have horrified him if he'd known how full of longing it was.

She was undoubtedly the most beautiful person he'd ever met. Robin found himself almost wishing that she had not stumbled upon him, that he needn't have known that such a woman existed. It would be that much more painful when she left his life again, and he would not—_could_ not?—let her be hurt, by him or anyone else.

With a shake of his head, he put it from his mind, and looked down at the baby in his arms, who was squirming uncomfortably. His small face was twisting…he was waking up, which meant that a wail was forming itself in the babe's over-adequate lungs. There was no help for it, then, he mused. Robin just hoped that the one lullaby he could remember would keep the babe quiet. He didn't know what else would keep the babe quiet—they had collectively tried and failed with everything else.

"—_and close the een heavy and weary. Closed are the weary een rest ye are takin'. Sound be yer sleepin'; and bright be yer wakin'. Hush ye, mah bairnie, bonnie wee laddie. When yer a man ye shall follow yer daddie._"

He rocked the child, pacing, in a method any midwife or mother would have recognized. Sure enough, it was starting to work, for the infant was starting to settle.

"_Lift me a cow, an' a goat an' a wether. Bringin' them home tae yer minnie tegither._"

The child had quieted half way through the lullaby, and was asleep again by the end. Marian had come back when the lad was just drifting off, but paused at the camp's entrance. Robin continued to hum softly, albeit tunelessly, when the song had been finished, searching his mind for any others that could work, cradling the babe carefully. He stopped pacing once he was sure the little one was asleep and would stay that way.

She watched man and child, noticing that the distinct burr that Robin talked in, usually rougher sounding than Nottinghamshire's accent, gave the lullaby a down-to-earth sense of safety and contentment, though the tune was entirely off-key. The Scot had many accomplishments to his name—apparently; song was not one of them. _Finally_, she almost thought, before stifling the nasty observation, _something he wasn't good at._

Yes, there was definitely a promise of safety in his long, powerful hands, Marian reflected, staring at them. That baby would probably never again be as perfectly safe as he was now. The man in front of her would make a wonderful father some day. If Robin wasn't an outlaw, he'd have already had some children of his own. _If he hasn't already_, she chastised herself. For all she knew, he _did_ have a wife and children stashed away somewhere. Scotland, perhaps.

Immediately the idea was discarded. Marian knew without asking that Robin would never leave a responsibility, especially not one like that. Shaking her head to remove such speculations, she crossed the small clearing that she'd come to call home.

"I'm back. I can take him," Marian offered, but made no move to push the man into giving her the boy. She loved children, but she didn't like the feeling—that her arms were being pulled out—that came from holding them for long periods brought. Something of this sentiment must have showed on her face.

"Nay, give yerself a rest, Marian. Ah'll 'old 'im a while longer." Robin said, a tiny spark of humor showing itself in his voice. Marian's traitorous heart leapt at the prospect of hearing him laugh again. "Ah nay mind 'im."

The statement nearly floored her.

Well, she thought, startled and flustered. She had never thought she'd hear a man say that he didn't mind taking care of a child for longer than he was forced to—weren't they supposed to be mostly ignorant of babies? Her step-mother had always alleged that men hated children—little children, anyway.

Of course, she thought with a frown, that was before her step-mother had thought that Marian would sit quietly at home and allow herself to be sold off into marriage to an utter lout. After that, Marian had had considerably less respect for the woman. Perhaps this was another thing the evil woman had been mistaken about.

"A penny fer yer thoughts, lass," Robin offered, wondering just what she had been thinking to bring so many emotions across her face in so short a period of time. Shock, amazement, anger, and then something close to amusement had flashed through her eyes, in less time than it took draw a bow. It was something that readily endeared her to him—that he could see what she was feeling just by looking at her. He wasn't sure what to make of the attraction he could sometimes read on her face—it was almost disheartening, because it meant he needed to put distance between them. He couldn't allow any kind of relationship to form past a wary sort of camaraderie.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

His lips twitched into a fleeting grin. "A shilling, then, fer woteva was on yore mind. 'Tis clear a penny would'na do 'em justice."

"I—I wouldn't want to cheat you out of a shilling," Marian stammered, half-worried by the thought that her Norman origins, despicable as most of them were, would make him think even worse of her.

She didn't know that he already knew something of her past; or that Robin had been concerned that despite appearances, she was unhappy in his camp. One of his eyebrows quirked upward a tiny bit and the grin that had hidden itself in his eyes was abruptly extinguished. Secrets were a way of life in the camp, but…

"Ah doubt it'd be a waste, lass. But Ah'll no' pry intae yore business," he half-shrugged, feigning indifference. They stood in a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Deprived of the child to care for, she had nothing to do—or say, for that matter.

Perhaps sensing her distress, he offered the tiny body back to her. Robin's face was indifferent, but once again she saw the tiny flash of longing in his clear blue eyes. She took the lad gently, which made Robin take a step closer to insure that she wouldn't drop the babe.

"Careful, there—"

Too close, as it turned out. It was a shock to the both of them when his hand accidentally brushed across Marian's breast. The caress had been completely accidental, yet incredibly intimate at the same time, almost frighteningly so for the two who were so obviously sensitized to each other. Robin's head jerked up as he sucked air in through his teeth, and he stepped back, having deposited the child safely into her arms.

Rather than attempt to speak, he gave her a quick, curt nod in farewell, and fled quickly, tension showing clearly across his shoulders. The outlaw's thoughts, most ruthlessly directed toward himself—particularly to the feelings that would have him waking up hard and aching tomorrow morn—would have turned the air blue, had he verbalized them.

Marian stared after him, her body beginning to tingle in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Her knees felt suspiciously weak, her insides too fluid and too hot for comfort. She could have cursed him for making her react like that—_again_, drat him—and not caring. It wasn't fair, she knew, but that didn't stop her from wishing equal discomfort on him.

She would have laughed, had she known that he too suffered.

* * *

Robin woke cursing fluently, hot and bothered despite the slight chill of the autumn evening. For the fifth night since Alice and her children had moved on to a new life, he couldn't get his mind off that afternoon. The thief was sleeping badly—when he slept at all. Damn her! No, damn _him_, for being unable to keep his damn mind out the self-dug gutter. His imagination had taken that afternoon—that evening at the waterfall, too—and run wild. Wilder than usual.

Gods_damnit,_ he growled to himself. If he wasn't having nightmares, he was fantasizing about Marian—in every way possible; not just about sex. That was bad enough, but it was when he dreamed of the cottage…that was the worst.

It was always the same. There was always a little whitewashed cottage, with two or three rooms at most. It was in a small clearing, not terribly far from the town—which town, he didn't know. Outside, there were three children, playing. The eldest, a girl, was about six, the twins were four or five. Marian sat outside with them, watching them play. Her sewing had been set aside; a baby was in her lap. She was laughing. The children were laughing. Occasionally there was a dog, a big wolfhound bitch. They all looked so happy…and the children were redheads, the look of the Celts clear on them; the lad almost Robin's twin in miniature, and the lasses were a pretty mixture of their mother and father. They all had their mother's distinctive sea-blue eyes, though.

The outlaw leader was still cursing when his boots silently hit the ground, having run out of English curses and moved on to Gaelic, and then Latin. There would be no more sleep tonight, though that didn't bother Robin much. He was still sleeping in the Great Oak, unable to stand the thought of Marian sleeping so close without acting on it. It was decidedly uncomfortable in the tree, and he tried to avoid staying up there when he wasn't asleep. It was too cold to dowse himself in the stream, and conjugating Latin did only so much to kill an insistent erection. He walked over to the banked fire, stirring it a bit with a stick, and sat nearby enough to enjoy its warmth—its light was minimal, to say the least. Robin drew a knife, and picked up the block of wood he'd been whittling at for a couple evenings. It would be a spoon, because they needed more spoons—they always needed more spoons. His hands knew the shape of both, so he wouldn't cut himself, at least—and the knowledge of that did little to ease the black mood that had settled on him.

The second watch would be coming in soon. The Scot would go out with the third, taking his second watch of the evening. Why ask another to give up sleep when he could spare them that? There would be no more sleep tonight for him.

Gabe cautiously left the sleeping shelter, picking his way around the other occupants, and ducking to avoid the low overhang. Half blind, he made her way over to the fire, still sleep-dazed. He'd woken for some unknown reason, the same nagging feeling dragging him from his pallet.

Gabe had joined the outlaw band only three weeks ago at the beginning of autumn, and barely knew his leader. He could see Robin now, whittling again. It was quite late and Robin should have been asleep, like any other sane person.

Well, perhaps not. Robin was…well, _Robin_, after all. He never seemed to sleep—indeed, the Scot didn't seem to be governed by the same laws the rest of them. Gabe had come back late at night from long watches numerous times to see the redhead slip into the camp, and woke in the mornings to see him at the hearth, looking bright-eyed and alert.

He went over to the fire, stumbling slightly over a patch of uneven ground. Robin never looked up, but had obviously heard him, despite his lack of comment. Gabe stood uncertainly, wondering if he was intruding.

"'Tis late, lad. Ye should be asleep." Robin still hadn't looked up, though his voice was welcoming. The outlaw's knife never faltered on the wood of the cup.

"So should you," Gabe retorted sleepily, before realizing that he'd been quite rude. He flushed—this was precisely the behavior that had angered his father for years—and berated himself. _Idiot! That's right, make the man responsible for allowing you to stay angry!_ But he saw an amused smile tug at his leader's lips, and his stuttered apology was shrugged off.

"Nay, dinna apologize. 'Tis true enough. Nae-one should be awake at this time o' the night fer no gud reason." Robin still didn't look up. "Ye're welcome tae a seat. Mah bite is none so painful tae lads up past their bedtimes."

Gabe sat. Silence reined for a while, broken only by the rasp of good, sharp steel over wood and the crackle of the fire. Gabe wasn't sure if Robin could even see the cup, the fire's light was so sadly lacking. Apparently, one could add the eyes of a cat to the list of Robin's amazing feats.

"Why _are_ you awake?" Gabe finally blurted. The knife paused, apparently snagged on a stubborn knot. There was another minute's silence as Robin considered answering.

"Mah…dreams have seen fit tae keep me awake tonight," was the answer he finally got, dragged reluctantly from Robin. The knot gave in, and the knife resumed its work. "An' ye?"

"I don't know. I just kind of woke up, I suppose. A feeling, I guess." Gabe told the older man, who nodded slightly in appreciation.

"Dinna ignore yore feelin's, lad. Ah've 'eard 't called intuition, instinct, the Sight, but woteva 't is, ye kin hardly find a better ally on a dark night. T'will probably save yore life, them feelin's," Robin advised. He sounded as though he spoke from long experience—he probably did. "Wot's got 'em twangin', then?"

Gabe pondered it. "I—I don't think we're in any danger…just—I don't know. It's like the feeling you get when a healer comes out of a sick room, you know, and you can tell something's wrong?" he shrugged, obviously frustrated. "Only, it's less than that, like someone's in a bad mood, and you can just tell? But…it's not from around here, either. I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"Nay, Ah ken wot ye mean, lad. The liddle things kin nag the worst, sometimes." More silence. It was longer this time, and Gabe could feel the bout of intuition settling down. He was still drowsy, and the feeling that had woken him was leaving, eased by the sharing of the knowledge. He was sinking further into sleep, half aware that he should go back to the shelter…

Robin looked up, and reached over in time to catch the youth by the shoulder before he slid forward into the fire in his sleep.

'_Interestin'. Who 'ave guessed tha' Gabe would 'ave 't tae?'_ Robin had a Celt's respect and easy acceptance for things beyond the world of the living, supported by his own often-active sixth sense. Setting down the wood that would be a spoon and the knife, he lifted the skinny lad, and walked over to the shelter were the outlaws slept, ducking down to avoid braining himself on the low ceiling. Avoiding the bodies that lay tightly clustered for warmth, he put the lad down, and covered him with his blanket, wondering unconcernedly if Gabe was planning to inform anyone that he was a she in disguise. The lies that had been told didn't bother him much. Everyone has secrets, Robin supposed, and if this was the lassie's worst—well, it wasn't too bad. The Scot had seen far darker secrets come to light, and this certainly wasn't the newest of deceptions—there had even been these 'men' in Jerusalem with the Lionheart. He'd let Maud know, so that she could help the lass with whatever it was that women did, if the lass needed it, and leave her to her deception.

He turned back toward the entrance, and immediately caught sight of Marian in the low light. Warmth spread through him, searing him with the suddenness and the intensity of it. She'd somehow managed to kick her blanket to the end of her pallet, tangling it around her ankles. Now she shivered mightily in the chill evening, rousing in him twin instincts to provide and protect. He knelt again, and untangled her ankles from the blanket, spreading it over her. It was no feather bed, but she seemed to prefer this life to the one she'd led earlier.

She curled under his light touch like a cat, and lighting flashed from his fingertips down to his toes, encouraging his pulse to abandon its usual rhythm once again. He leaned forward slowly, like one entranced; unsure of what he was doing until he felt her lips soft beneath his. An ill-timed snore from one of the men jerked him back to his senses; his heart and body instantly crying out for more. In direct disobedience to their needs, he stood, hitting his head with a half-hearted curse, and left the shelter, hitting his head again on the low entrance, cursing once again.

It had transcended mere desire, he knew now, alarmed and angry and grieving for what couldn't be. He loved her. _Damn it_. Trying to deny it—to himself, anyhow, for he'd not willingly tell her—any longer would be like trying to stop the sun from rising. _Twice and thrice damn it_.

He continued past the fire, out of the camp and into the safety and privacy the forest offered, instinctively grabbing his bow and quiver. He moved more or less blindly through the dark forest, the only light coming from the waning moon, often obscured by the trees. It didn't matter much; he knew the forest well enough to keep from getting lost or badly hurt. Once he was out of sight of the camp, he groaned a low curse; his head ached badly where he'd whacked it on the cave's entrance, and it had naught on the pain in his chest.

It was all too much right now—too many responsibilities to too many different people, with too many conflicting emotions. And there was Marian, smack in the middle of it all, fooling with his emotions and twisting him into a knot of pent-up desire. For now, he would allow himself a moment's despair in private, and that would have to suffice. Perhaps, with time, it could.

Robin leaned back against a tree, head bowed, wanting nothing more than Marian in his arms. His hands were unsteady, and he felt ill. He slid down the tree, sitting down hard on the ground at the elm's roots. It hurt more than any physical wound had ever plagued him, this nasty unfulfilled ache—only intensified by the stolen kiss. It gave rise to a despair he'd never felt the like of before. _He couldn't have her._ She, he thought with a certain bitter savagery, was as far out of his league as the Queen of the Faeries.

Marian did not return his feelings, he knew—she didn't even know of them. She desired him, and perhaps knew that he returned the desire, but she didn't love him. That was how it would have to remain.

"Robin?"

He jumped—Dolt! He hadn't even heard someone approaching!—regaining his feet like a startled deer, struck dumb as he saw who'd snuck up on him.

_Marian_.

Robin would have taken an arrow to the heart more easily than see her right at this moment, when he was in so much turmoil.

"Robin? Are you alright?"

He nearly fled, he nearly snatched her against him; he wanted her so badly. Instead, he grabbed for his defenses. "Aye. Ah'm fine." His voice was strangled, hoarse with emotion, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

"Are you certain?" He could hear the concern in her voice, could picture the endearing little frown that would be on her face.

"Aye, l-lass, Ah'm fine." He wasn't. Robin wanted a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him, or something of the sort. "Ye should be asleep." _Wit' me_, some stubborn part of him begged, the idea of waking up next to Marian—not even after a…a busy night—was the single most satisfying thing he could think of right now. The Scot forced that particular need down with vicious ruthlessness.

"If you say so." He couldn't see the expression on her face, but confusion could be heard in her voice now, as well as stung pride. He hadn't wanted to hurt her…perhaps this was best, though. Marian could think he hated her—he wouldn't try to disabuse her of that notion, even if it killed him. She turned on her heel and went back to the camp, leaving him staring after her. Robin's body was tense, as though he would go after her, but he stayed still, barely breathing.

If he had thought he'd been suffering earlier, he'd been wrong. It was so much worse now, watching her walk away. It very well might kill him, he mused, letting her think he hated her.

She had woken feeling prickly and uncomfortable—like someone had been close enough to disturb the air around her. Her lips felt odd, too. Then there were the two sounds, like someone hitting their head hard against the dirt ceiling and root-lined entrance, and a muffled curse.

Restless, she'd gotten up, and barely caught sight of Robin, slipping out of the camp. _Where's he going?_ She didn't hesitate in following him—he wasn't heading toward the privy, nor would he be going on watch yet, and he was moving fast, as though something were the matter. They travelled, with some score of feet between them, to a point just outside of the camp's range of sight. Several times she'd nearly lost Robin, he was still far better at slipping through the forest. When she caught up with the outlaw again, she was in time to hear a small noise of pain, and see him slide to the ground, leaning back on a young elm tree. His head was in his hands, as though he was trying to stave off a headache.

It was surprising how the prickly, irritable outlaw could look so vulnerable, seated on the ground, head in hands.

"Robin?" His head jerked up as though she'd kicked him, and he jumped to his feet. His back to the wane light of a crescent moon, making it even more impossible to see his expression.

"Robin? Are you alright?" Marian inquired again, getting the feeling that he was in pain.

"Aye. Ah'm fine." Well, he certainly didn't sound fine. He definitely sounded as though he was hurting.

"Are you certain?" If he still didn't want her help after this, she'd just leave him alone. He disliked her anyway, so he probably didn't want her near him when he didn't feel well.

"Aye, l-lass, Ah'm fine. Ye should be asleep." His last sentence sounded rather like an accusation, as though she had infringed on some secret rite, instead of a developing headache.

Stung, she replied with a rather biting "If you say so," and turned on her heel, marching back to camp and bed.

She'd only been worried! Goodness, if Robin hated her so much, why had he let her stay? Was it so wrong of her to worry about him? Grumbling, she reentered the camp, and returned to her corner, wrapping herself in the blanket that she'd been given—originally Robin's, and burying her face in the cloth. It no longer bore the faint trace of his scent—wool, wood-smoke and man—and she mourned the loss.

What had she done to make him hate her? She couldn't remember doing anything that made him angry; he just always seemed irritated when she was around. The thought brought back its usual ache. Why did she have to love a man that hated her guts so badly that he barely looked at her? Ever since that day in the camp with Alice's baby, he'd been more aggravated than ever, proving that she really did disgust him.

No! She nearly snarled it aloud, dashing the wetness away from her face. She wouldn't cry! Not over Robin Hood! Angry with herself and with him, she pushed the tears back and laid quietly, her body aching with a tingling emptiness.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_Sherwood Forest, England. Mid-September_

"Robin! Robin!" Isaac burst into camp, making everyone freeze.

The Scot's head snapped up, his attention immediately torn from the picture for a hypothetical addition to the camp he'd been studying in the dust at his feet.

"Aye? Wot is it?" He demanded, disliking the look of panic on Isaac's face. His hand was already going to his bow.

"Sir Richard—he's in trouble!"

Sir Richard of the Lea was the last Saxon lord with any real power in the area. Something of a hero to the peasants, Robin and Much had played on his lands as children, and had known him well enough.

"What's his son done this time?" Much asked, concern on his face. Sir Richard's son was infamous in these parts for being a total bounder, though where he got the trait nobody knew—both his parents had been kind to the point of saintliness. They said his mother had died from the shame of it, and his father was forever getting him out of scrapes, only for the cad to create more problems.

There was certainly no love lost behind Berkley and them. Robin knew that Much bore a scar on his head from the bastard's crop, and he himself had had his own ears cuffed more than once without reason.

"He's killed a man, a Norman this time. Richard's already mortgaged most of his properties to pay off his lesser sins—and the Sheriff's dog in calling in his mortgages now, when he can't pay."

Much cursed, and Robin looked grimly angry. "Ana idea 'ow much he owes 'em, or when they'll be collectin'?"

Isaac shook his head. "No, but it shouldn't be too difficult to find out. Everyone's talking about it in Nottingham."

"Git the highest estimate ye can. We'll go from there." Robin decided, scowling as he considered this new development in the farce that was his life.

By the time everyone who wasn't on watch, wasn't asleep, or otherwise engaged were at the fire, taking the evening meal, Robin had resigned himself to the day being a bad one. Nothing had gone right: Sir Richard was in trouble, with no plausible rescue in sight; Marian was nursing a grudge from the debacle last night; and his sixth sense was working overtime, making him nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking-chairs.

Furious rustling erupted in the bushes, startling all of them. Robin's bow was up, and an arrow drawn before anyone else's—though he signaled that no one should fire yet. The Sheriff was in for a surprise if he thought the outlaws were unprepared to defend themselves.

The rattling bushes couldn't hide the sounds of two people arguing, though, and it didn't sound like any kind of attack Robin had ever been a part of. Frowning, he listened harder.

Scowling, he identified the source. "Liddle John, if ye and Gabe dinna leave off tha' noise, Ah'll shoot ye both, Ah swear tae God." The Scot promised, letting his bow relax, trying to will away the tension in the back of his neck where it had been collecting all day. No luck. To spite him, the tension simply tightened further, and moved to pound at his temples.

There was silence for a moment, than Gabe burst from the brush, and stumbled. Robin, who stood closest to where she came out, caught her before she fell. Gabe was clutching her tunic at her collarbones, as though afraid someone would try to take it from her.

"You can't make me leave!" Wild grey eyes met Robin's blue ones. "You can't make me leave! I won't go!" Gabe told him insistently, not fighting the Scot's grip on her shoulders but concentrating all of her not inconsiderable will into the words. Little John followed his young student out of the bushes.

"Easy, _leanabh__i_. Ah've no' asked ye tae leave, 'ave Ah?" Robin asked soothingly. "Liddle John, wot's going on here?" He inquired, looking over at the giant. The other outlaws were crowding around, trying to see what the matter was.

"Gabriella!" Marian cried, her surprise evident when she saw Gabe for the first time since Gabe's arrival in Robin's camp. Other surprised murmurings sprouted from that exclamation, and they crowded even closer.

"Whoa, wait—evraone sit daown! Go, sit daown, an' we'll sort this oot like adults," Robin finally commanded, sick and tired of the disorder. People crowding around him often had that effect—it unnerved him, having that many people so close to him. Thankfully, the outlaws did as he asked, and returned to their seats around the fire, Little John included. Robin led Gabe over the fire, his arm around her shoulders, and seated her, before taking his own seat.

"Naow. Ah want the whole story. Liddle John, ye'll go first." He directed, noticing the faint trembling that had overtaken Gabe. Whatever was wrong, the lass wasn't taking it well. He squeezed her shoulder lightly, to comfort, and released her.

Little John nodded, and briefly thought about the best way to say what he needed to say.

"Well, I made an interesting discovery today," The giant said, gazing at his protégé oddly, trying to force some lightness into his gruff voice. "Our young friend there is a not a boy, as we were led to believe, but a young woman."

"Ah see." Robin searched Little John's face, and saw that his ears were burning red with embarrassment. "May Ah ask 'ow you discovered this?"

"Her camisole slipped."

Robin nodded, unsurprised by the revelation. Secrets like this rarely chose opportune moments to be discovered. The Scot doubted the giant was very angry—startled, shocked, embarrassed—but not particularly angry. He looked at Gabe, who was staring anxiously at the ground, as though answers would spring from the dirt. She didn't look up when Marian moved to the seat beside her and tried to comfort her, but leaned against her, let herself be comforted. It was becoming clear that they had indeed known each other in their old life.

"'Tis oot in the open naow, lass, so ye kin relax. Wot were ye runnin' from, Gabe—should Ah call ye Gabriella?" She shook her head, indicating that she didn't want to be called that. She rushed into speech, her sentences as nervous as her eyes.

"My father sold me to a Norman—Sir Giles of Fairbrook—my brother agreed—I was given no choice—Fairbrook is a _toad_—I couldn't stand the idea of marriage to him—"

"Slow daown, there, lassie. Ah kin barely understand ye," Robin requested gently. "Giles o' Fairbrook? Ah'm no' familiar wit' tha' name."

"I know him. He's of the Sheriff's ilk," Little John said, steel in his voice at the thought of Gabe—_Gabriella_ forced to be with the man.

"I know him too," Marian said, though she wouldn't look at Robin. "He is worse than the Sheriff, if the truth is to be told. He is cruel, lecherous, and unwise. Pond scum has more honor than that man. But he is rich, and Norman, so he is considered a catch by noble fathers and mothers."

The Scot frowned, his eyebrows beetling over iced-over eyes. "Fairbrook…Did 'e 'ave a son—or a nephew—called Barret?" Robin's voice was odd when he asked. Much's head flew up to look at him in alarm. Marian looked up, seeking Robin's eyes for some clue as to what he was thinking, to make his voice so cold.

"Yes—but he died several years ago, after he—"

"—Deserted th' Lionheart. Aye, Ah know. Did 'e die, then?" Robin asked, his eyes narrowed at the memories.

Marian nodded. "A—a riding accident, in Normandy." She was slightly worried at the look on his face—she didn't think she'd ever seen his eyes that hard before. But then he relaxed, and turned back to Gabe.

Much nearly chuckled. _So, Robin did force Fairbrook out_. He'd always wondered if that was the case. The bastard deserved it, and worse.

"So ye were tae marry Fairbrook. Ye ran away tae avoid it…an' found us. But why'd ye hide yerself as a boy? T'is obvious we take in women, too. Why not come as yerself?" Robin asked curiously. He glanced at Little John, who was still listening intently. The others in the band were nearly spellbound by the shock of the discovery. A few of them were wondering why their leader looked so calm—surely…he hadn't…_known?_

"Would any of you have treated me like an equal if I had? Robin, you might have—_might_ have—but you, Little John, would you have taught me the things you have if you'd known? Marian is special—she always been like a sister to me, but if I tried to get away with half the things she did…Maud and Anne don't wield bows! They do not fight, or hunt, or go with you on raids!" Gabe snarled, her fierce gaze going from Little John to Robin and back.

"I'm sick to death of being treated like an inferior being, simply because I'm a woman! Am I not a human? Do I not think, or have feelings, or—or—" her voice broke, her grey eyes going tortured, tears beginning to form in them.

"Ye've a point, lass. Dinna cry, naow," the Scot murmured, wishing he had a handkerchief. Maud handed over hers. Gabe clutched it, scrubbing away the offensive tears.

"Little John, would ye have taught her wot ye have?" The Scot inquired levelly, now that the danger of tears was past.

The giant shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have taught her like I have." _I'd have taught her to aim lower, and hit harder._

Gabe's eyes narrowed. "If you try to make me leave, I'll knock you flat," she promised Robin with a hard light in her grey eyes. His eyebrows shot up at the threat.

"She probably could, Robin," Little John murmured. "I've been teaching her to deal with larger opponents."

"Ah know better than tae touch an angry female," he muttered back. "Much, ye remember when Maud near aboot took off mah ears wit' the boxin' she gave 'em fer sneakin' up on her, dinna ye? T'was the closest Ah've got tae a whippin' since Ah was a bairn," he confided, grinning sheepishly at Gabe, though the grin turned into a grimace. "Gabe, Maud pulled a bow 'til an accident aboot two years ago—"

"And I've been very happy doing the cooking and making sure you fools are fed," Maud interjected. "If I didn't do it, one of these lugs would, and we'd all starve—especially if Robin cooked!" the older lady smiled too, in Gabe's direction, ignoring the scowl she knew without needing to see was on Robin's face. "It's no hardship, believe me. I like doing the cooking, and clucking over you all. You're all my family." Gabe blinked and was silent.

"Anne is learnin', ye know tha'. Marian an' Much 'ave been teachin' 'er an' Allen fer a fortnight," Robin picked up again, an indignant look on his face. "An' mah cookin's no tha' bad—t'is no' _mah_ fault ye _sassanach__ii_ dinna like _colcannon__iii_. Ah've always liked it.

"Anaway—" The outlaw's leader tried to salvage the conversation. "Ye dinna 'ave tae leave, alright?" Gabe nodded. "Good. Liddle John, d'ye 'ave ana objections?" He asked mildly. The giant shook his head. "Anaone else want tae say something?" He looked around briefly, almost daring someone to speak up. No one did.

"Good. Naow, then. Tomorrow, ye can go an' reconnoiter Sir Richard's place. Ah need some idea o' defensible places in case the Sheriff be more prepared than we're expectin'."

"Yes. I can try to find out the prices as well—I'll take Gabe so that we pass off as a lord's man and his assistant." He would need Gabe, Robin knew, as Little John couldn't read or write well enough to do so alone.

Robin nodded his consent, sealing Gabe's fate.

* * *

Had Little John been serious when he offered to take her with him? Or did he intend to leave her at camp anyway, to keep her out of the way? Little John was difficult to understand…even with the added advantage of having spent so much time in his company, Gabriella wasn't sure what to expect from the large outlaw. Did he suspect her feelings for him? She cursed—for the hundredth time—the circumstance that had revealed her. Why couldn't that tunic have ripped some other time? Why had the bindings she used on her breasts slipped _then_?

And what had Robin meant—_its out in the open now_? Had he known? But…but _how_? And if he had known, why didn't he say something? He was odd, Robin was.

But _how had he known?_

Pushing the bothersome thoughts away, Gabe—she far preferred this Gabe person to the person she'd been as Gabriella: weak, female, and refused the right to make her own decisions—descended from the Great Oak. She was going with Little John if she had to fight rabid bears…they couldn't be worse than Little John, could they?

_Gabe was a girl—a young woman, actually._ Little John was relieved, though he'd never admit it, except, perhaps, to himself. He was still rather stunned by his discovery. His ward was female. It explained some things, at least. For instance: he'd never been interested in a boy before, and it had confused him to have started now. He knew things about Gabe…Gabriella…that he wouldn't have bothered to learn about most women. Her strengths, and weaknesses. The way she thought. The way she looked at almost any time of the day and night, the way she smelled, the way she fought. He knew more about Gabriella then he'd known about his _wife_. But obviously not enough—because he was a she. He wasn't sure whether to feel betrayed, impressed, or grateful.

She really was seventeen, too; which only put fourteen years between them—perfectly acceptable in this day and age, for him to be having the thoughts that he sometimes did. And now that she was growing her hair out of that horrible self-cut disaster, she was looking more feminine. In another month or so, he would have guessed with or without The Accident. But damn, she was so skinny…he'd have to ask Maud to make sure Gabe—_Gabriella_—was eating enough. Again.

Robin didn't look up when Gabe joined him at the fire before the break of dawn. He handed her a rough-hewn wooden cup of the herbal infusion that Maud claimed was a cure-all preventive—it helped the outlaws stay warm, he would admit that much. Little John appeared moments later, and was presented with his own cup. They were a quiet bunch in the mornings; the three of them were the earliest risers in camp, save those on watch. Robin highly doubted Gabe had gotten any sleep at all—worrying, no doubt, about the others' reactions—in the branches below his, where she'd taken refuge last night, despite the cold of the night. The glances she kept sending him and Little John confirmed that in a heartbeat. He could just see the questions forming in her mind—how had he known? Why hadn't he told anyone? Would Little John still teach her? Would she still be accepted? What would happen?

Little John stood, as uncommunicative as always, when he'd finished, and Gabe shot up beside him, obviously worried about being left behind.

"We'll be back by evening, if all goes well." Little John assured the Scotsman, who nodded, rather amused by the pair of them. It was obvious to an observer than Gabe was more than half in love with Little John—and the other half was most definitely hero-worship. Little John, for all his silence, and the massive black beard that obscured most of his face clearly adored Gabe, or he'd never have let her follow him around like an enthralled puppy. He was simply subtler about it.

"Be careful, ye two. Ah mean it," he warned. "Ah know ye know, Liddle John, but the Sheriff is goin' tae try tae use this as a trap. Dinna git caught, alright?"

Little John nodded mutely, and Gabe murmured her consent, before they both left Robin looking after them, chuckling quietly. He wished them luck and happiness, all the luck and happiness he would have wished on a brother, and a sister. And wondered when the wedding was going to be.

* * *

Robin glanced around the castle's courtyard. People loitered, some more obviously than others. There was a vibe of tension in the air, as though even the stones that made up the great building were waiting, watching. It wasn't a comfortable environment—all it was missing were bagpipes wailing a war song to justify the nervous energy floating around them. That aside, the castle was in excellent repair, the servants and serfs healthy and well-dressed. Sir Richard had always been a good master. Obviously, that had not changed since Robin went to Scotland all those years ago.

This was going to be interesting. Very interesting, as Much so kindly pointed out. Sir Richard had taken the news of the called-in mortgaging fairly badly, locking himself in his room, trying to think of some way to put everything to rights. The good man hadn't eaten for two days, nor, the servants thought, slept. A shadow of the man pacing his floor had been seen from the courtyard, confirming these theories. The Sheriff and his little friend—a weaselly man called Charles Gannon—had already entered the castle when Robin and his outlaws were let in by the servants that Little John and Gabe had spoken to.

"You'd be m'lord Robin Hood?" an elderly, toothless man inquired of Robin, his faded green eyes running over Robin. Good eyes, he decided, studying the cold, steady blue. There was justice here, in the young Scots warrior that stood before him and in the eyes of the men and woman at his back.

"Aye, Ah'm Robin. Is everythin' all set up?"

"Aye. I've got at least one man fer every one o' his. Two fer the bigger ones. We'd need three or four fer your Little John, I think, sir, so I judged accordin'ly. D'you think you've got enough ta buy it all back from the Sheriff's dog?" The elderly man—who had introduced himself as Old Tommy—asked worriedly.

"Dinna worry, mah friend. We doubled the highest estimate—near aboot beggared a dozen nobs doin' it, tae. We've enough, Ah promise ye."

Old Tommy led them through the castle—they passed several bunches of concerned-looking servants that littered the halls—until they reached the Great Hall of Daerdenell. Robin signaled that no announcement was to be made—arrogance and surprise were their best weapons at the moment.

True to their word, the outlaws sauntered in, seemingly completely at ease, as though they already owned the place. They spread out, each one picking a place where they could get either the Sheriff or Gannon in their sights. The guards lurched forward, and then froze as they realized that there were arrows pointed to their master's throats, and their own. There were enough of the outlaws to hold all of them prisoner, and still leave Robin, Little John, Much, and Will Scarlet standing before them. The villagers that lurked only further insured that the outlaws would win any battle fought here.

"Mornin'," Robin greeted, stepping forward. "Ah hope we're nay tae late tae join the party?"

The Sheriff spluttered something inarticulate, and Gannon looked worried. Sir Richard looked vaguely confused, like he heard a voice he'd known once, before his eyes widened in recognition of his unannounced guest.

"Ah'm given tae understand tha' Sir Richard 'ere has mortgaged 'is properties. Ah hear tha' ye, Lor' Gannon, are the 'older?"

The rodent-like man nodded, almost against his will. The Sheriff scowled at him. Robin smiled, a distinctly condescending—if not downright insulting—twitch of his lips.

"Th' mortgages are, o' course, available tae anaone at the moment, aye?" Again, Gannon nodded helplessly—caught in the subtle trap Robin had laid with voice and eyes, like a weasel before a fox. "Tha's gud. If ye dinna mind, then, mah friend's an' Ah would like tae buy it from ye."

At their leader's nod, the outlaws stepped forward and up-ended four heavy purses onto the table, where they spilled gold, silver, and jewels. The outlaws would laugh about the Sheriff's facial expression for a very long time, though for the moment, they kept their faces straight.

"Ah believe tha' the deeds belong tae me naow, tae do with what Ah will. Isna tha' right, Sir Richard?"

The old man jumped, still staring at Robin in stunned recognition. "Uh—yes, um. That appears to be nearly double the price of the properties."

"Wouldna ye agree, mah good sirs? Mah offer is a far betta one then ye get from good Sir Richard, with 'is sudden, unfortunate… ah… decline in wealth."

"This—this is an expensive ring that was stolen from me nearly a year ago!" the Sheriff snarled, snatching up a simply engraved gold ring and brandishing it like a sword. The ring's worth had little to do with the money it itself could bring, and everything to do with power.

"Ah, but sir," Robin stepped forward and pulled it from the Sheriff's resisting fingers, "Tha' could'na possibly be true. Ye see, this be the family crest o' a _verra _old Saxon family—the Loxleys. Ah 'appen tae know tha' the heir tae tha' family would _neva_ give up 'is inheritance unless it 'twas fer a good cause. Unless yer sayin' tha' ye…_stole_ it from 'im?"

The Sheriff spluttered something inarticulate again before falling silent, and Robin picked up the deed, putting the ring gently back on the pile of gold. "Ah'll take these then. It 'twas lovely doin' business with ye, gen'lemen. Ah'm sure tha' one o' Sir Richard's servants can show ye oot—he'll remain in power 'ere. Mah friends an' Ah prefer a simpler life amongst bonnie Sherwood's trees."

Robin smiled mockingly, as though inviting the Sheriff to argue. Moving stiffly, the man shoved the gold back into the bags, and grabbed two.

"Come along, Gannon—let us leave the new owners to themselves. I'm sure we will see them again _soon_!" He snarled again, and the other man took the other two purses and both were led away by a jubilant servant, followed by his soldiers, who eased away from the arrows at their throats. Robin watched them go with a look of distinct satisfaction.

"Robin?" An astonished voice inquired. The Scot turned back to Sir Richard. "Robin Loxley?"

The old man studied his face with weakening blue eyes. "It _is_ you! How—why—but Robin Hood? Robin, you troublemaker!" Richard scolded, abruptly unable to stop chuckling, rising and embracing the tall Scot tightly, as he would a son returned. Marian could have sworn she saw tears glittering in his eyes.

"I thought you went to Scotland!" He looked around, and spotted Much, smiled all the wider. "And you've dragged Much into your villainy too. Bless you, boys."

Robin grinned. "Nay, bless ye, Sir Richard. 'Ere," he handed Sir Richard the deeds. "Dinna lose these. 'Twould be a shame tae lose the last Saxon laird in these parts."

Surprise jumped to Richard's face, then transformed into obstinacy. "Robin, these are yours now—by law. I can't—won't—take them." The Saxon lord tried to push them back into his hands. "How many of your properties have you liquidated to do this?"

"Nay, nay, Sir Richard. Ah dinna want them. Ah've no' spent a penny o' mah own—they were reverted tae the Crown when Ah went tae Scotland, fifteen years ago." Robin pushed the papers that claimed ownership of Daerdenell Castle back at him, and stepped away. "We shouldna 'ave even come—there's little enough gud tae come o' an ootlaw's 'elp, after all—but Ah couldna think o' ought else tae keep wot's yers in yer 'ands. So 'tis yers, mah friend, naow an' forever."

Richard thanked him, profusely. "If you or yours ever need a friend, Robin, come to me. You will, won't you?" he asked anxiously. "And your lands—what have you done about them?"

"O'course Ah'd come tae ye, Sir Richard. Ye'll be the first Ah come tae should the need strike." Robin quietly drew him away from the topic of discussion from his properties. The fact that they'd been stolen made a dark rage smolder within him impotently. What _could_ he do? The Sheriff and his late brother had expertly stolen—_legally_ stolen—Arborlea, the traditional home of the Loxley family, when he had learned the orphaned Loxley heir had gone to Scotland, to be raised by his mother's family.

But it mattered not, not anymore. It was impossible to do anything now. He had included his crest in with the rest of the gold, had bribed the Sheriff into accepting the money and leaving by offering a far larger prize. And he had lost the only piece of proof that he was heir, except for his name. The knowledge of it cut like a knife, straight through his heart. He pushed aside the pain. He had bigger things to worry about.

"Excellent. Will you introduce me to your friends? I would thank them as well."

Robin nodded, and started. "This is John Liddle—Liddle John, ye may know 'im as. 'e was 'ere a few days ago. Much, ye know. Will Scarlet—though 'e's more green an' brown right naow—Gabe, ye know as well, Isaac, George, Robert," The Scot pointed out each in turn as Sir Richard nodded in greeting.

"And tha's Marian," he concluded, coming to the beautiful woman. Richard blinked in surprise, recognizing her immediately, now that he looked through her disguise of men's clothing and a hat, her hair tucked up beneath it.

"Lady Marian has found her way to _your_ court, then. My dear," he addressed her, "You've become the talk of the court in London. No one knows where you are."

She smiled—a secret smile that made Robin suck in a hasty breath of air. "Good. That's just how I like it."

_Loxley's not a Scottish name. What properties?_ She was curious. _Just who _is_ Robin?_ She had noticed the strange scene with the ring—and that Robin's long hands were now devoid of any gold.

"Sir Richard, Ah would like nothin' more than tae continue this visit, but Ah find mahself anxious tae return tae Sherwood. Ah wouldna put it past our Sheriff tae try somethin' untoward. If ye eva have ana interest in treasonous venison an' coarse bread, tho', ye know where tae find us," the Scot invited him with a wry grin.

Richard laughed. "If I ever do, I will walk into your Sherwood and get as lost as possible, waiting to be set upon by your subjects. The villagers call you the King of Sherwood, you know," he teased him, answering the questioning glance, and knowing he would get a wince for it. When he did, he laughed, and pumped the Scot's hand vigorously. "Until we meet again, Robin. God bless you, and stay safe, my friend!"

i

_Leanabh_: a Gaelic term for 'child'

ii

_Sassanach_: A Scottish term for Saxons. Not Big Foot.

iii

_Colcannon_: A Scottish dish made of whatever vegetables are available.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_Nottinghamshire, England. Early October_

_That bastard! How dare that…those…outlaws defy __**me**__?_

The Sheriff of Nottingham threw a goblet against the wall, disregarding the wine that stained stone, while he sat brooding. Rings flashed as he drew his hand back, the most recently acquired gleaming dull gold in the flickering light of fire and candles. The death of his brother—God rest James—had been bad enough, but now, two _years_ of humiliation heaped upon humiliation! He wasn't going to stand for it anymore, by God! Stealing Richard's lands right out from under him like that—that outlaw was doing the Devil's work, make no mistake! He was a plague on mankind—harming friend and foe alike!

He knew what he'd do, the Sheriff though suddenly, stroking greasy hands through greasy beard. He would enlist in the help of the heir apparent—two plump birds with one stone. On the one hand, he thought, warming to his plan, he'd have that cur Robin Hood, and on the other, he could show the Prince what a loyal, profitable sheriff he was.

Yes, it was perfect! That way, the Prince could break his ugly little neck over the nasty outlaw, while he would reap all the benefits! Oh, yes. After that, he'd finally have time to find that girl who'd run away—the King's niece, and wed her. She had a very nice dowry to her name, and her step-mama had promised that she was a pretty little piece. Yes, it would be very enjoyable finally bringing that outlaw to his knees.

* * *

Another coach was coming through their forest, beyond lavish this time. It was downright sagging under the weight of the fripperies that adorned it, rolling along at a snail's pace for the comfort of the occupants. This was none other than the royal coach, used by Prince John himself. Robin watched it bounce down the road toward his crew. A grim smile graced the thief's hard face, the fingers of his right hand flexed slightly. He cursed under his breath and forced them to still—he had yet to become used to the lack of his ring's familiar weight.

The Prince could spare the tax money he'd taken from these people. John had guards aplenty with him, but they could be distracted easily. With whispered orders, Robin sent Anthony, Gabe and Much to do just that. Much had sent him a familiar, almost feral grin, which he'd returned with a nod and a restrained smile.

"Aye, Much. Jus' like the Saracens," he answered the question behind that almost-berserker grin he knew almost too well. "Bu' Ah'd rather ye didna get tae excited, ye ken?"

Much nodded, and with a jaunty wink, they disappeared into the underbrush. The others with him edged to readiness in the trees. Slowly, the outlaws watched as guards at the end of the procession fell off their horses, unconscious, one by one. They would be tied up later, as the outlaws, unlike the Turks, preferred to avoid killing Englishmen if they could.

The carriage passed under him, and he dropped. Robin had timed well, and hit the man driving the coach just as the others had taken out the attendants. Not one of them had had the time to shout. He slowed the horses.

"What the—Oy! Why are we stopping?" Someone from inside cried out.

The remaining outlaws surrounded the halted carriage, bows and arrows at ready. Robin jumped down, and went to the door in the coach, flinging it open warily. Sure enough, a crossbow bolt flew out, nearly grazing his cheek. Robin didn't even blink. Reaching in, he casually snatched it from the thin, well-dressed clerk that had held it in shaking hands, and handed it backwards to Little John along with the small quiver that had been on the near seat.

"'Ere ye are, Liddle John. A toy tae play wit', jus' like ye've been wantin'." He turned back to the occupants of the carriage, grinning his usual predatory smile at who he saw inside. "Oh, Yer Highness. Welcome tae Nottinghamshire, and Sherwood Forest. Ah did no' think tha' we'd see ye here, so deep in braw, bonnie Sherwood. Naow then, Ah've been wonderin', mah good sire, if'n ye've the heart tae contribute tae the just cause o' feedin' the poor? 'T'would be in yore best interests, Ah think, considerin'…" he allowed the thinly veiled threat to trail off suggestively. Marian, in her usual disguise—not that John would ever recognize her in the clothes she wore and her hair pulled into a cap—blinked. She had never heard him threaten one of their marks so openly before. She rather wondered if he was planning to make good his threat.

The Prince flicked a disdainful glance over the outlaw. "I think not. Guards!"

Robin grinned at him. "Ach, wheel, t'is a funny thing, aboout yer guards. None o' them kin 'ear ye, as mah lads 'ave sent 'em tae dreamland."

The Prince and his retainer were bid to step out of the carriage in icy tones, and had their hands and ankles tied tightly. Blindfolds were added after a second, and the outlaws lay the tied-up noble and his servant on the ground.

No one felt any need to be particularly gentle with their royal captives, but Robin wouldn't have them hurt, and had, at one point, stepped in the way of a blow George had thrown. It had landed right on his jaw, laying there a bruise that would be brightly colored for days afterwards. Marian had winced at the weight of the blow—Robin barely blinked, but snarled, and shoved the man away from the royal party.

"George! Gud God, git a grip on yoreself, man! Ye dinna kick a bound man! No' when 'e can'na defend himself!

"But, Robin, he—" He had ordered the execution of George's two brothers and best friend two years ago, for bootlegging near Cornwall.

"Ah dinna care if he deserves it, no' while Ah'm aroound, ye won't!" Robin shouted, hauling the brawnier man farther away from the Prince. "Dinna ye think this will hurt 'im far more than ye can by hittin' him? This, 'e'll remember 't'ill 'is dying day—a beatin' t'will las' weeks a' most. Naow step aside, or ye feel _mah_ fist in _yer_ face."

George subsided with a grudging apology to his leader.

All of the gold that could be removed and carried was collected, and the two blindfolded men were placed back in the carriage. Much and the others had rejoined them by now, having finished tying the men they'd rendered unconscious.

"Ready, Robin?" Much asked, having arrived in time to help carry some of the heavy loot.

"Aye. Le's go, ere they wake an' are af'er our blood. Liddle John, go las' an' cova our trail, will ye?" Little John nodded, and they disappeared back into Sherwood's depths again, leaving the Royal party to work themselves free of their bonds.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_Sherwood Forest, England. Early November_

"'ey, Robin! Did you hear? There's an archery contest being held in your honor! The Sheriff of Nottingham wants to thank you for all the trouble we've been giving him for the past two years!" Anthony called across the camp, to his leader, grinning widely. "He says there's a gold'n arrow in it for anybody that wins, an' a full pardon, too. Wonder what that could mean?" The bearded man wondered sarcastically.

"A golden arrow? Wot would anaone do wit' it? 'Twould be tae heavy tae fly right." There was a look of distaste on the Scot's face that was nearly comical. "Na' thanks, Ah'll pass on tha', an' the noose tha'll go wit' it." His smile faded, though, and his eyebrows knit. "An' Ah dinna want anaone wit'in a league o' tha' contest. The Prince'll still be in a rage fer wot we did no' two weeks ago."

"It might be better if we did show up, though," Marian remarked thoughtfully. "We don't have the contacts in the Sheriff's home like we had before, when Will had a girlfriend there. John might be up to something truly underhanded." The other outlaws regarded her equally thoughtfully, and then turned back to their leader, to see what he made of this development. Robin's face hardened as the possibilities assaulted him.

"'Ow likely is tha', do ye think, Marian?"

She shook her head ruefully. "Too likely. The Prince won't leave anything to chance. He plays to win, you see." Marian said apologetically, unaware that the other fugitives blinked in surprise. Where, a few wondered, had Marian gotten such an up-close knowledge of the Prince's mind? She was nobility, of course, but just _how_ noble was their friend—and did it matter?

"Well, then. Anthony, when's this contest supposed tae 'appen? Ah want everybody tha' can get oot o' camp tae do so. Naeone tha' 'as ana way o' surviving wit'out us is goin' tae be here long ere Ah send ye on," the Scot warned, before he turned back to Anthony for the specifics of their last major endeavor.

It would be the last, she knew. Where the knowledge had come from, she couldn't have said, but she did, and that same something told her it would end badly.

Robin became increasingly edgy over the next week, waiting almost impatiently for the archery contest to arrive. One by one, the band of outlaws trickled even thinner. Some went with better graces than others, and for the first time, Marian saw Robin lose his temper with someone other than Much or herself. Robert and Isaac got the worst of it, because they were stubborn and so was their leader. There was no shouting this time, but the flashing blue of his eyes and the edged bite of his words was plenty to get his point across. Before long, Robert and Isaac had moved on, with, apparently, no lasting hard feelings.

The only reason he hadn't yet managed to send Allen and Anne away was because Anne was too heavily pregnant to travel the distance to Scotland, where Robin had family that could take them in, and Robin wasn't going to let her risk herself and the child just because of him and his nerves. In the worst case, she could go to Friar Tuck with Maud.

Much had escaped the scourge simply because Robin knew his chances of removing the Saxon without a knock-down-drag-out fight occurring were slim to none, and Marian had watched Little John lift an eyebrow, and ask, "I knocked you into that stream once. Did you want a repeat performance?" when Robin started toward him with that determined gleam in his eye. Robin had winced, and wisely walked away. The threat seemed to cover Gabe as well, as she and Little John had announced that morning that they were to be wed.

She imagined that he would go after Anthony, Will, and George without hesitation. And knew, just _knew_, that the damnable man would consider her a favorite target.

So when Marian saw Robin coming toward her with the infamous look on his face—blank-faced Scots stoicism, with his blue eyes still snapping from a tangle with one of the others—she braced herself for the quarrel of her life.

"Naow would be an excellent time tae go tae yore covent, Marian," he said without preamble. "Ah want ye tae leave."

"I'm not leaving," She said calmly, drawing on years of composure lessons, refusing to let the words hurt her. Marian drew her armor of pride, stubbornness, and determination around her and strapped it on. Robin watched her, recognizing the set of her jaw and the light in her eye. He wasn't going to win this one either, Robin realized bleakly—he didn't even _want_ her to go. Only the amount of danger involved had forced his hand, and Marian had more influence over his common sense—or lack there of—than she knew. But that was no reason not to try.

"An' why do ye think Ah'd let ye stay if'n Ah made Robert 'n' Isaac leave, hmm?" He inquired, irritated. Robin wasn't used to bending to his emotions, and damned be if the outlaw let himself slip now.

"Because I'm just as stubborn as you, that's why. Besides, Maud will need help delivering Anne's babe." Marian said cheerfully, smiling up at him. Robin nearly groaned aloud. _Tha's right, lass. Smile again. Ah'll jus' melt in a puddle at yore feet, whether or no' Ah want tae. T'won't matta if yer right or no'._ He chastised himself for it, but Marian was getting to him. Rallying, Robin acknowledged the challenge with a nod.

"Stubborn ye are, Marian. But Ah want ye oot o' mah camp ere the Prince does somethin' really verra nasty—an' Maud's goin' wit' 'em."

"You aren't making Much or Little John leave if they don't want to," Marian pointed out, candor apparent in her voice, before she continued primly, "And you'll have mutiny on your hands if you send away Maud—everyone knows none of you men can cook."

Robin half-grinned and half-grimaced. "Ah pity woteva covent ye decide tae go tae. They'll neva recova from ye. But yer goin'."

Marian smiled again. "Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment. But I'm still not leaving."

The Scot sighed. There was that smile again. A man could get addicted to those bright smiles, even if they weren't directed at him in joy. And he couldn't afford to. "An' Ah ask ye again, Marian. Why d'ye think Ah'm goin' tae let _ye_ stay?"

"Robin, these are my friends. I'm staying until the end—whatever end that may be. I don't really care whether or not you approve, because my mind's made up. You can't force me to stay at a covent, anymore than you can keep me from returning here. I can find my way back here as well as Will, and he's one of the best trackers here, so you can't say I won't return." Marian's chin had gone up, and she had jumped to her feet in front of him, daring him to refuse her.

"Ye're no' stayin' 'ere, Marian, if Ah've got tae drag ye tae a covent and lock ye in a room mahself. T'is dangerous. The Sheriff is gettin' tae clever fer safety. There's no way ye'll be exempt from woteva fate if ye're anawhere near me or anaone wit' me when 'e catches up tae us." _Oh, Laird, no, she isna stayin'. No' if Ah kin help it._

"_Hanging_, Robin. You can say it; it's not a dirty word. I know what would happen. I don't care. I'm staying."

"_Ah_ care! An' ye're no' stayin'! Marian, could ye be reasonable, jus' fer once? Go tae a covent, stay there 'til 'tis safe, an' then do wotever ye 'ave tae. Find someone else tae drive mad, 'cause Ah'm aboot this far from takin' ye over mah knee like a bairn."

Robin saw the flash of pain in her eyes despite his anger, and instantly felt remorse. It didn't show on his face, but he felt it and wondered exactly what had stung her in that sentence. It always surprised him how much it hurt him to hurt her—and he hated doing it to them both.

"You couldn't care less what I want, could you? Much less _why_. I begin to think you haven't got any other emotions but irritated and downright cold," she remarked, her own voice frigid.

"Oh, aye. Butter wouldna melt in me mouth, lass. Ye best get used tae tha'," he retorted, the effect of the words well hidden, though the barb had struck deep into his heart. It hurt, he found, to have her spitting venom at him like this. They normally blunted their weapons some, whether they acknowledged it or no, before going at it like this.

"I'm no child, Robin, to taken over your knee. The sooner you figure that out, the easier it will be on all of us."

"Ye claim no' tae be a child, yet ye plunge 'ead first intae danger. This is no' a lark, Marian, _an' yer no' goin'_. So _there_."

"You're an autocratic ass, you know that? You wouldn't ask Much to leave a friend, would you? Then don't do it to me, Robin. I am going, and this conversation it over, Your Grand Highness of Sherwood."

She departed with all the imperial dignity of a queen, back straight and head held high, impervious to his wince at her words—he hated the title, and the ideals behind it. And he really hated that she knew just how to use that to her advantage. Robin stared after her, his fists clenched by his sides. He could see the brutal straightness of her back and knew, through the haze of his own anger and hurt that she was hurting just as much as he.

_Nay ana feelin's, is tha' it? _He thought miserably._ If tha's so, why do Ah 'ave tae want ye so much? Why do Ah 'ave tae love ye so much it hurts?_

* * *

Robin cursed again, and shifted so that the tree wasn't digging into his spine quite so much. Months of sleeping in Palestine's harsh conditions, and later in the tree that helped make up his camp had left Robin capable of sleeping in nearly any surroundings—sandstorms, rain; hail was a bit tough—he generally took cover beneath one of the rock ledges then; snow, and wind. He had been blessed with a hearty constitution and had no fear for the potential dangers of night airi—hadn't he, after all, spent enough nights raiding, be it for family or King? Why he couldn't sleep now was irritating—though he knew exactly what was keeping him awake.

_I begin to think you haven't got any feelings…_

It was apparent that Little John and Gabe had no idea that Robin was still in camp—trying to sleep—when they came in, and apparently started to...well; Robin wasn't quite sure what they were doing. He hadn't taken the time to look.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, he _was_ in the camp, and sleep was still eluding him. The Scot was exhausted—three days without more than a few hours of sleep was starting to tell on him. He was jolted from his half-sleep, half-doze by Gabe and Little John making some sort of rustling noise—when he was conscious enough to realized that it wasn't a threat, he hoped it wasn't clothing being shed. He groaned loudly at the interruption of the little sleep he'd gotten and as a warning, before he swung out of the tree. Damn him, he was jealous of them—envious that they had found each other and he had found a woman who thought he had no more emotion than a grouchy bear.

"Ah'd find someplace a wee bit mor' discreet, t'wer Ah ye," He said in passing, not looking at either of them as he headed out of the camp. "Watch changes in aboot ten minutes, an' Maud should be back soon. But 'ell, dinna let tha' stop ye," he growled, stifling a yawn—he really did need some sleep. For one thing, his temper was as fierce as the Devil's own.

He ended up giving up his pursuit of sleep, and hunted instead, knowing that Maud was drying all the meat she could for the coming winter. The Scot brought down a good-sized buck—the animal weighed nearly as much as he did, at around ten stone. Lifting it made his tired muscles scream in protest, but he had to take it back, and he hadn't brought anyone else with him to help. Upon taking it back to the camp, he turned on his heel and left again—his mood was so foul by now he'd end up reducing someone to tears, and with his luck, it'd be Marian.

Robin wanted nothing more than several long hours alone, to sleep. He didn't want to see Marian avoiding him as she had since he'd tried to make her leave. He didn't want to see Gabe blush every time he glanced at either her or her fiancé. He didn't want Much babbling at him about Marian, as he knew Much would.

The outlaw relieved George on watch and sat in a tall tree for four hours, determinedly staying awake. He returned at an inopportune time—as Will was telling Anthony about the woman from Nottingham he had wanted to marry, but couldn't, due his obviously reduced circumstances.

"Who would ask the woman they love to live like this? I mean, we're not all as good as Robin—girls don't just fall into our laps—" Will was complaining to his friend, who nodded in agreement.

It wasn't, after all, Robin's fault that he'd been blessed with looks that drew women in hordes. But the man, they'd agreed long before this night, was oblivious to lovely Marian's feelings, the idiot.

Robin came into sight then, having heard everything. The guilty look on Will's face gave rise to his own innocently worded inquiry of how they were tonight. Pretending he hadn't heard anything was best—it saved them all from embarrassment. What was he supposedly so good at? Making Marian miserable? She hadn't fallen into his lap so much as slapped him in the face as a kidnapper. He didn't bother with dinner, just pulled himself up amid the Great Oak's golden foliage. He was exhausted, and miserable, and damn it,_ he still wanted Marian._

It was autumn again, he noticed, and the wind was just cold enough to make him wish he were strong enough to sleep with the rest of them. He pulled the tartan around himself to ward off the chill, and finally slept.

It was Much they sent up the tree to wake him the next morning, well-aware that Robin didn't take kindly to being woken.

* * *

A week later, the contest was to begin. It was usual, as archery contests went—hit the target, proceed a level. It was the feast afterwards that interested Robin. The highest-ranking participants were to shoot what the Prince phrased as 'the most noble' animal they could within the confines of the law for the final round, and bring it to the Sheriff's home for consideration. All of the animals—he claimed—would be cooked and served to the villagers and their families the next day. Robin had heard that, and started laughing. Always perverse, Marian allowed herself a moment to simply stare at him, taking in the perfection of the outlaw when he threw back his head and laughed 'til he had to knuckle moisture from his eyes.

"Aye, aye," he chuckled, "an' mah hair is blue, tae. Wot's he want with the poor dumb animals? Aside from us tae take the bait, Ah mean? Nay, dinna tell me. Ah'm sure Ah dinna want tae know."

Robin was nearly unrecognizable with his hair stuffed under a cap, and without his usual clothing on. He would take only the famous longbow and the sgian dubh in his boot—it wouldn't do to go blatantly armed. Tuck had supplied them with the different clothing—clothing, the Scot had complained, that made him feel like a fool—and was holding onto Robin's distinctive tartan. Marian, Much, Will, Little John, and George would all be showing up early, as spectators, to get the family that Prince John was holding out safely. Marian had disguised herself as a boy, her hair, like Robin's, tucked up beneath a cap, with the cap drawn low over her face.

The great hall where the festivities were being held was loud, hot, and smoky. Almost immediately, Marian longed for Sherwood—the cool late-autumn weather was perfect: cool and smokeless and fresh. And, of course, the company in Sherwood was far preferable to the rabble that associated with the Sheriff and the Prince. But they were here for a reason—to get the family who sat in terrified silence in the back of the hall, near the Prince to the safety of Sherwood.

There was a shout from outside the huge, iron-studded doors of the hall. The portcullis was raised, and the doors opened. Hush fell over the hall as a tall man appeared—Robin. His hair was dutifully tucked under his hat; his clothes weren't at all what an outlaw would be wearing—they were so gaudy that he would be seen miles away. The only thing that marked him as an archer was the bow and quiver that hung from his shoulders. A tusked male boar was slung over his shoulders as well—his invitation to the archery contest. Of all of the animals that had been brought in, this was the riskiest. Not only was it illegal to poach boarsii—like deer—in the King's Forests, but a wild boar was one of the most difficult animals in England to kill, usually taking a full hunt, with dogs and horses and spears to bring one down. And while this one was relatively small, it was a slap in the face, nonetheless. Unrepentantly bold, Robin strode forward, up to the high table where the Prince and Sheriff sat staring in shock.

"Ah heard there was an archery contest. Ah thought, 'Mah dear Prince an' the Sheriff wou' surely miss me, their gud friend, Robin Hood. Ah should surely stop by, an' pay mah respects.'" With a heave and a duck, the Scot unburdened himself of the boar, pitching it forward onto the table, blatantly throwing it in the two men's faces. "So Ah brought ye this."

"T-that's a wild boar!" the Sheriff shouted, wide-eyed. The redheaded outlaw regarded him as though he were a lack-wit.

"Nay, laddie, tha's a wild pig, an' a bonnie one a' tha'. Tha'," he inclined his head toward Prince John, who was gaping at him as though he'd seen a ghost, "'tis a wild bore. Ye see? 'Is poor guests 'ere be near aboot asleep."

The hall was silent for a moment, then shouts of laughter, boos, and all other manners of noise erupted. With a grin, he swept off his cap in a bow to those that had laughed, revealing what the famous outlaw looked like to the curious aristocrats. Robin was an excellent distraction, allowing the other outlaws to hustle the imprisoned family to safety.

"Guards! _Guards!_" At that cry, dozens of armed guards sprang forward, attempting to hem the outlaws in as the guests surged this way and that, attempting to avoid being caught between the guards and their prey.

Robin's bandits escaped in the din, Robin and Marian coming last, meeting their friends outside the castle. The Scot's hair had been hastily shoved back into his cap and his gaudy sky blue tunic abandoned, and Marian's hat had fallen off, releasing her long, silky hair. Blood dripped from her shoulder, its flow slowed by the hand she'd pressed to it. Robin supported her until they were free of the mass of humanity that was roiling inside the castle.

When they were out, Robin paused only long enough to rip off a sleeve of the brightly colored tunic he wore, knot it tightly around her wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding, and slip an arm under her knees to lift her. Both of their faces were drawn and pale, though Robin's was in horror, and Marian's was in pain and shock.

The Scot could feel the dark, all-encompassing panic tugging at his mind—Marian was hurt! Fool that he was, he'd let Marian get hurt. He'd _promised_ himself that he wouldn't let her come to harm, and yet she lay limp in his arms—her life's blood seeping from her body, and onto his hands. If she died— He shoved the fear away, willed himself to pay attention to what had to be done.

"Marian, _agam gaol__iii_, dinna go tae sleep, a'right? Ah know 't 'urts, bu' ye musn't go tae sleep." Robin demanded; his stride long and hurried. He couldn't do much more than that, for fear of hurting her further. If she died— Nay.

"How bad is it?" Much asked, falling into step beside his friend as they fled to the forest they called home, the others ahead of them.

"No' good. Is anaone else hurt?"

Much shook his head. "No, not so badly that Maud or I can't deal with them. What do you want me to do?"

"Take 'em back tae camp. Ah'll git Marian tae Tuck. Marian," Robin addressed the woman. "Marian, are ye still wit' me?" He felt the slight motion of her head against his shoulder, and hoped with all his heart it was her nod. "'Ang in there, lass."

"How'd she get hurt?" the short Saxon inquired, now jogging to keep up. The path would part in a moment, one prong through the forest toward Northampton, the other one of the many forester trails that the outlaws occasionally appropriated, but not quite yet.

"She jumped in front o' me, took a knife tha' someone tried tae slip a'twix mah ribs. _Damn!_" Robin glanced down again, feeling her head loll against his shoulder. "Marian's oot. She's no' big enough tae lose this much blood." She was tall, but he'd never suspected that she was so slender, so light. His stomach knotted tighter, knowing a blade meant for him might take her. She couldn't lose much more blood, not without serious consequences.

Much cursed as well—Marian shouldn't have to die like this, and Robin shouldn't have to lose another loved one.

"Git the others tae camp. Pack up wot ye kin, and put as many as ye kin on watch. Dinna light a fire. The Prince is no' going tae git tha' much o' a clue, if Ah kin help it. Ah'll be back when Marian's alright." The Scot loped off toward Tuck's chapel, going more by instinct than the markers that the outlaws had on the trails.

"Tuck! Friar Tuck!" The Friar was roused by the sound of Robin's voice at his door. When he opened it, he was confronted with a ghastly sight. They were both covered in Marian's blood, she was unconscious, and Robin was exhausted, and looking far worse for a fight. "'T'is a stab wound—'er right shoulder—blood's near aboot stopped naow," the Scot reported, following Tuck into the small chapel to lay her down on the thin bed.

"Thank you, Robin. Will you wait outside? I can't dress her wound if you're here." Robin nodded and went without another word. Outside, he paced, unable to stand still or rest with Marian hurt. If she died…if she died, he would never be able to forgive himself…He squeezed his eyes tight shut, his fists clenching, the heart in his chest contracting beneath the tight iron bands of bone-deep terror.

If she died…he didn't know what he'd do.

By the time the Friar came out to give him Marian's condition, the beginnings of a path had formed right in front of the chapel. Fatigue read in the lines of the Scot's body, and his face was beneath the nasty bruise that was starting to rise on his cheek drawn and pale with fear. When Tuck opened his front door, Robin whipped around.

"Marian? 'Ow is she?"

Tuck was surprised by his tone of voice. He had noticed Robin's uncharacteristic dislike of Marian, and the note of trepidation in the outlaw's voice wasn't congruent with that aversion. Suddenly it hit him, a blinding flash of insight into the mind of the stoic Scot. _Good Lord. Robin…Robin's in love with Marian._

"Marian will be fine. She's very weak right now—she lost a lot of blood. I want to keep her here for several days, until she's regained some strength. God willing, there will be no infection." Tuck saw, more than heard, the small sigh of relief from the outlaw, even in the low light. Relief was evident in his face, easing some of the harsh lines around his mouth and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

They both knew that Marian never should have been put in the position to be wounded—she should've been one of the first to leave—but Tuck didn't say anything about it, for which Robin was grateful. How could Robin explain that his desire for her presence had influenced him to allow her to stay? To stay and be wounded.

"You may go in and see her, if you wish. I have to go and get a bucket of water. I'll be back in a few moments." Tuck didn't have to look back to know that Robin had slipped into his cottage.

She wasn't awake when Robin kneeled beside the bed, but he forced down the worry. She would be all right. Friar Tuck knew what he was talking about—Marian was largely out of danger. The knowledge eased the tight bands around his chest, but only a little. Now he had to come to grips with the guilt of putting her in that danger in the first place. He placed a gentle hand on her forehead, to see if she had a fever. A slight one, but that was to be expected—he knew enough of such injuries to know the fever burned away the infection that was infinitely more dangerous than the wound itself. She stirred; wincing as she unconsciously moved her arm, and tightened guilt's grip on him.

Marian was distantly aware of Robin's voice murmuring soothingly. It wasn't in plain, precise English, but a melodic, somehow earthier language—the Gaelic he occasionally used. His voice was odd…pained. Had he been hurt? She didn't want him to hurt. The warm, callused hand on her forehead smoothed away the tangled hair, sifting through the silky strands. It felt good—right, even.

He stopped all too soon, and she heard Friar Tuck's voice.

"Is anyone else hurt?"

"Nay. Jus' Marian."

"Damned foolish of you, to take such a risk like that. You look awful, Robin—You're sure you aren't hurt?" Tuck sounded worried.

"Aye. Ah'm fine," Robin answered, probably more to reassure Tuck than in truth.

"Robin, you're limping, and those bruises make it look like someone just flogged you," Marian caught the note of anxiety in Tuck's voice, and the slight sound of fatigue in Robin's. Someone had flogged Robin? That couldn't be right. He was far too proud to allow that.

"Ye havna asked me how the otha men looked yet. Dinna worry, Friar, Ah gave worse than Ah got—yon soldiers dinna know a thing aboot mêlée fightin'. Do ye want me tae move her tae the shelter ere Ah go? Ah expect you'll git some visitors later."

"Yes, please." The man of God didn't sound happy about Robin's change of subject, but seemed to realize he wasn't going to get a different, more truthful, answer.

Robin lifted her easily, trying to avoid jostling her shoulder. He held her tenderly, even lovingly; cradling her against his body. A short trip later, he bent; taking her into the small tunnel-like bolt-hole the outlaws had made for Friar Tuck's safety. It was hidden in the bank of a hill, disguised by a layer of grass and sod. Robin lay her down on the pallet inside, and took the blanket Tuck passed in. He'd gotten his plaid from Tuck, who'd kept it for him while he crashed the tournament, and tucked that around her as well, for extra warmth. The dyed cloth was thick and warm from the heat of Tuck's fire, and she unconsciously snuggled against it, deriving comfort from the familiar scent that had steeped into Robin's _fheilidh_. He let a hand linger for one second on her cheek, and then left the shelter.

"Ah'll be back tae check on her soon, or Ah'll send Much. Friar, d'ye—" Marian faded back into total unconsciousness, and was unaware of anything else for several hours.

* * *

"You ratted us out? To the Sheriff?" Much snarled at the hapless man, whose tunic collar was clenched in Much's strong fists. No one but Robin had ever seen Much truly livid, but this was as close to the berserker-fury Much was capable of as anyone ever wanted to see—already the other outlaws looked on nervously.

The Sheriff was growing desperate indeed, if he was using innocents from Nottinghamshire to do his dirty work. Not that he hesitated in using innocents—he didn't. He just wasn't intelligent enough to do it properly. That he'd brought in someone else—the Prince, in this case—to do it for him, at his expense, was telling.

"He had me wife, Much! What did you want me to do? Leave 'er with that devil the Prince hired? You'd've done the same, an' you know it!" the innkeeper snarled back, guilt putting an edge to his words. Much, knowing that that was at least partially true, loosened his grip.

"I'm sorry, Jason, no, you did the right thing. The _Prince—hired_? Who?"

"Guy o' Gisbourne—you know, the devil from up North?"

"Oh, good Lord. What—_exactly_—did you tell him?" Much released him, and listened grimly to the innkeeper recount what he had told the sheriff and the prince.

"—an' I couldn't tell him where this place was—'cause I didn't know it t'was here until today—honest, Much. Bu' I had ta tell 'im about that old deer path—you know, the old one, northwest o' here—t'wix here an' Tuck's chapel? That's the one. I figure if'n you all stay away from that, you'll be alright—"

It was not to be. Fear travels with the fastest wings, and the Sheriff had enough fear for an entire battalion of men facing the gallows. The Prince had also sent Guy's men—enraged at the outlaws' audacity in robbing him—_Him!_ Nine men already closed in on Robin, who, ignorant of the danger, was on that exact deer trail—just where Jason had said the outlaw would be, and the last place Robin had ever expected them to be.

Even taken by surprise, Robin was a dangerous enemy. Three fell to his arrows in the first minute—another one down—before they were upon him. Rendered nearly weaponless, Robin fought tooth and nail, tiger-like, in an eerie silence that unnerved his attackers. He cursed the fact that the small _sgian dubh_ was ineffective in combat with this many people—what he wouldn't do for the dirk that was still in camp, hanging safely on one of the Great Oak's many branches, at the moment. Two more were dead thanks to Robin before the sheer weight of numbers brought him to his knees. Fear for their lives prompted the soldiers hired by the Devil from the North to throw a constricting loop of rope around his throat and set about with truncheons.

Surely this man could not be human—_no man_ held against nine; well, three, now; attackers for that long—and killed over a half of their number armed only with a bow and a few arrows and one short dagger who's blade was no longer than a man's palm. It was madness—or he was a demon in human form. Even then, Robin fought the ropes, struggling to his feet, with the light of battle blazing in his eyes. Finally, working together, they managed to subdue him enough for one of their number to strike him hard over the head and knock him unconscious. They all heaved a sigh of relief then, standing awkwardly around the unconscious body of the rouge who'd plagued the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire for nearly two years.

Prompted by Much's gut feeling; Will, Much, Little John, and Marian—who, now awake, had insisted on coming when Much came to the chapel in search of his leader, despite Tuck's protests and the pain in her shoulder—went out to look for Robin, who had yet to turn up in camp. He usually never went more than a few hours without checking in at Ard Darach—in the event that something calamitous happened.

He'd been gone for nearly a whole day without warning, having never gotten back from Tuck's. They checked everywhere they could think of—except the deer path. Fruitless in all of the other locations, they set out on it, wary of attack. Half-way along it, six bodies littered the ground. Four had broken arrows imbedded in their chests, the darts having killed the men instantly.

The other two were less lucky. One's neck had been snapped. The other's body still had Robin's tiny _sgian dubh_ sunk hilt deep in his back, slid under the shoulder blade so that it pierced his heart from behind. The turf was mussed, and blood had soaked into it, staining the green and brown of the grass deep rusty red.

Most disturbing of all—Robin's bow, broken in half in the struggle, lay forlornly on the ground, the string still new with the regular upkeep Robin gave it. The undergrowth, Will and Little John agreed, showed signs of several men passing through quickly, heading east—toward Nottingham.

* * *

Robin woke to a throbbing headache and a bruised body. His wrists were still bound securely behind his back, stretching the muscles in his shoulders almost to ripping. The outlaw instantly recognized his surroundings as a cell, having seen both the inside and out of plenty. There was no bed, merely a pile of moldy, foul-smelling hay. The privy was an empty, equally foul-smelling bucket standing in the corner—completely useless to him, with his hands bound and nearly numb. The only source of light was a tiny hole in the wall, above even his head-level, with iron bars running vertically across it. He could hear vermin scampering in the dark corners. The door was made of solid oak, bound and barred with iron. With difficulty, he struggled to his feet, using the wall to help support him while he sorted long, aching limbs out to achieve his goal. It was late afternoon, if the sun wasn't deceiving him. A horrible thought occurred to him—what if they'd caught the others, or Marian and Tuck?

The door creaked open, and Robin whirled to face his captors. The Sheriff of Nottingham and Prince John stood before him, the first cowering behind the second. Another man, dressed in more militant clothing than either the Prince or the Sheriff, entered behind them. Robin recognized him as the man who'd tried to kill him at the ill-fated archery contest and got Marian instead. Now he realized who the gentleman was: Guy of Gisbourne, a northern lord's second-born-son-turned-mercenary. Robin had never met the man, but if half the stories told were to be believed, than the black-haired man was dangerous indeed. The treacherous air about him and the cruel look in his strange silver-blue eyes meshed perfectly with the tales. Several burly guards wearing Gisbourne's famous insignia—a wolf, rampant—also filed into the cell, forming a half circle around the soon-to-be beset outlaw.

As expected, the soldiers pounced on him simultaneously. It wasn't long until he was, again, subdued and held forcibly to the ground, kneeling to the Prince against his will. Robin was breathless and panting shallowly for air—the guards were both large and strong, not to mention unencumbered by confining ropes; and he had taken at least two solid blows to the solar plexus. One of them grabbed his long red hair, jerking his head back painfully, so that the Prince could look at him.

"So, this is Robin Hood—the bane of loyal men of the realm like the Sheriff of Nottingham? Huh. There must be some mistake." The Prince was rail thin, his face pinched and sallow beneath limp, sandy brown hair. His voice was whiny and unpleasant to listen to—the exact opposite of the man's elder brother, Richard. "I see only a beaten Scots dog."

Robin grinned, ignoring the fact that the blossoming bruise on his face made the insolent gesture painful. "Hark a' the usurper playin' at 'is brother's work, eh lads? Ye're tough, aren't ye, wit' 'alfa dozen man-jacks a'twix ye an' me."

A shriek of rage assaulted his ears, as well as a few muffed guffaws, which were hastily turned into coughs. The darkly dressed man behind the Prince didn't react, his face remaining closed, though Guy's eyes glittered with unholy amusement.

When John had composed himself, he seized Robin viciously by the hair, dragging his face up to hiss venomously at him.

"For that you _will_ pay, outlaw, make no mistake. You shall hang, but not yet. No, I desire full compensation for my humiliation."

Robin stared cheekily up at him, an offending grin egging the Prince on. "From wot Ah kin tell, ye dinna need _mah_ help tae embarrass ye. Ye do jus' fine by yerself," Robin assured him, hatred blazing up bright in his eyes.

To give credit where it was due, the Prince didn't react to his words. He merely smiled coldly, his rage spent, and turned away from him.

"Seventy lashes to begin. If that doesn't sweeten his disposition, do what you will." He addressed the room at large, and Guy of Gisbourne finally stepped forward as Robin paled slightly.

"Of course, Your Majesty," He said quietly, smiling slightly, looking down at Robin with a gleam in his eye that the Scot really didn't like the look of.

"Oh, aye. An' ye wonder why Ah dinna like ye, ye smarmy liddle bastard," Robin remarked sardonically to the Prince's retreating back, wondering uneasily if there was going to be enough left of his hide for them to bother with a hanging.

"Make it eighty lashes, Gisbourne."

Hours later, Robin was flung back into the cell. A soft groan left him as the solid door slammed shut. He pushed himself up gingerly, fighting nausea and grimacing as the movement pulled at the newly acquired wounds had stretched across his chest in long fiery abrasions. The Scot stumbled over to the wall of the small cell, and collapsed against it, sliding down so that he sat propped up. Air hissed through his teeth—it hurt, every inch of his skin was on fire.

"Wheel, laddie, ye were askin' fer it. _Ach, damn_," he grimaced again as his elbow brushed his ragged tunic against the raw skin of his ribs. Pride, he decided, was one of the seven deadly sins for a reason—it could get you killed. But at least they hadn't tied his hands.

Nearly three hours had passed when shouting drew his attention to the small window high above him. Guards ran past outside, their footsteps thudding, and there was the thud of a body hitting the ground. Robin sprang up—or, rather, hauled himself up painfully—and backed away to better see outside. One of the guards had fallen, dead, with one of Marian's arrows embedded in his throat. Robin wasn't sure what he wanted to do more at the moment—kiss her, or take her over his knee for endangering herself. She was wounded, damnit!

So, he remembered seconds later, was he. At least she was free—he could not claim the same. He gritted his teeth, and pulled himself up level with the tiny window, using the blocks of stone as toeholds where he could. He threaded an arm through, and braced it across both bars to hold himself up, before he reached through again with the other arm, to try and grab the tool that fell so nearby. The fletching brushed teasingly against his fingertips. He snarled a curse in Gaelic, and heaved forward. Clutching the shaft, he fell back, dragging it out of the body, and dropped back down to the floor. The landing jarred him, sending even more pain shooting through his already abused body. Through the throbbing waves of pain, he could hear people running toward the cell from inside the building. He crossed the room quickly, and stationed himself beside the door, so that when it opened, as he hoped it might, it would shield him from sight.

It opened a second later.

"He's escaped! How the hell did that happen?" Guy of Gisbourne demanded of his two hapless men, bounding into the cell to search for escape routes. The soldiers stuttered something—Robin didn't know what, he was already moving.

It was a toss up between who was more surprised when Robin's tall frame collided with Guy's shorter, broader one—Guy, or his two soldiers. The arrow bit deep into his chest, piercing his black heart. Guy staggered back, clutching at the thin length of wood that was embedded in his chest, staring in shock at the outlaw who had killed him.

"See ye in 'ell, Gisbourne. Tell yer master tha' Ah said 'ello," Robin instructed in a rasp, right before he was grabbed and brought to his knees by the two men. Gisbourne slumped forward, eyes locked with his killer's, dead before he even realized it. More shouting from outside told the Scot that the other outlaws had been chased away. The two mercenaries bound his hands again, and dragged him out of the cell where their dead leader lay. A blow to his stomach sent the wounded Scot into unconsciousness.

He wouldn't learn that Will Scarlet had died that night, attempting to save him, until the next day when Prince John descended to the dungeons.

i

Night air: People in the Middle Ages believed that the night air was poisonous, and could cause illness and demon possession, when in actuality; it was likely insects and bad hygiene that caused the illnesses. Demon possession was a way of explaining strange human behavior, mainly mental or emotional disorders.

ii

Hunting laws: There were laws in England against hunting on the nobility's land (and almost all of it was the nobility's land)—the punishments for being caught could be as severe as losing a hand or one's life. This was, despite that, the most broken law in England up until the Industrial Revolution.

iii

_Agam__gaol_: My love


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

_Nottinghamshire, England. Mid-November_

The hanging had been announced for three days before the event, nearly a week after Robin had actually been caught. The Sheriff was holding a grand banquet afterward, and had invited everyone—everyone noble, of course. The hanging itself would be open to anyone who wished to watch.

The outlaws' nerves were twanging as they slipped in among their fellow Saxons come to watch. There were rumors, of course, that Robin Hood couldn't be killed—that he was some kind of elemental sent by the old gods of England to save her from the Normans; that his merry band of giants and spirits would come and rout the heathen enemy—protecting the poor and oppressed as always; that even though the Prince had hired Guy of Gisbourne, Robin had defeated the devil's spawn of a man and would escape to triumph again.

Robin's outlaws knew better, knew far too well that Robin was—while extraordinary—still only human. They were a small group—smaller now; for Robin had been sending people off left and right, some kind of sixth sense telling him that there would be danger, and after Will Scarlet died in the ill-fated rescue attempt three days earlier. There was no way that the bandits alone could rescue England…but they could help Robin, and they _would_ rescue him, or die trying. They had already lost Will; they weren't going to lose Robin too.

Whether or not their leader had defeated Guy of Gisbourne, however, was debatable. Much was doubtful—if Robin had been under the custody of the Prince's dark hireling for as long as he had been, it was unlikely that he was able to even draw a bow by now. Alan and Gabe, on the other hand, were convinced that he had triumphed. The others held their own council.

Marian's palms were sweating by the time the sun had reached its zenith. _Oh, please, God, don't let them have hurt him badly,_ she prayed, gripping the hilt of small dagger that Robin had left in the soldier's back. Her long hair had been cut to her shoulders, pinned up and then covered by a cap. Young women weren't supposed to go to hangings—they were considered far too indelicate, and Marian would've attracted undue attention with waist-length hair falling out of her cap.

The Sheriff had decided that Robin's death would be a full celebration, and had moved its time to the middle of the day so that everyone who wished to see could. There was an archery contest, and stands selling food and trinkets of all shapes and sizes.

A sudden chorus of derisive noises announced his arrival—this _Scot_ was the famous _Robin Hood_? Where was the Saxon they'd been promised? Who was this imposter, taking the place of their hero?

Marian nearly gasped when she saw that Robin and the Sheriff were already at the scaffold. To her dismay, she saw that his hands were bound tightly behind him, and that he stumbled up the stairs with none of the usual grace he was blessed with. The Sheriff shoved Robin forward, secure in the knowledge that his prisoner would not react to the rough handling.

Robin didn't, hurting so badly that he merely concentrated on not falling over on his way to the noose.

The outlaws started shoving their ways forward, as close to the scaffold as possible. The noose was being settled over Robin's head…Marian could hear the soldiers' raucous laughter as the Prince said something derogatory, could see how pale his face was, how dark eyes and bruises showed up against the white of his skin. The drums started, counting down the seconds of Robin's life.

The plan was for Little John, Anthony, and Much to slice through the rope with arrows before Robin strangled—it was risky, but the best they'd been able to come up with. Their first rescue attempt had gone badly awry—the Sheriff's manor had been too well guarded against that kind of attack, and Will had paid the price. Here there were guards, but with three well-aimed arrows, everyone had a much better prospect of survival.

They had this chance and this chance only, though, and timing was everything. Two seconds…. One second…. Much and the others weren't ready, she could see they weren't. The people were crowding too close, blocking the way…

"No! _Robin!_" The Scot's head jerked towards her before the trapdoor dropped away beneath him with a loud clack.

For a second, it seemed like the rope had broken Robin's neck, and that he was dead. Her heart stopped beating in her chest at the moment the trapdoor dropped, and he dangled helplessly. But then the outlaw started wrenching his body around, trying to get a boot hooked up over the edge of the scaffold, fighting desperately to relieve the pressure that was cutting off the oxygen that kept him alive. Marian started to breathe again, though not well, as she continued to push through the morass of people between her and the gallows.

The hiss of arrows and the roar of the crowd told her that Little John and the others had finally succeeded. She jumped over the dividing barrier, and ducked beneath the scaffold.

Robin was already struggling to his feet. With a swift slice of his dagger, she freed his hands. He ripped the noose from around his throat with a quick, feral grin of thanks, and dragged her along with him, from under the scaffold. The guards were already starting to make their ways through the crush of furious townspeople—a Scot was better than nothing, they'd decided, as long as _they_ weren't expected to rescue him. And anything that thwarted the Sherriff and the Prince was to be applauded. They quickly found Little John in the fray, and Much and the other outlaws materialized out of nowhere.

"Spli' oop—they can'na gi' us all tha' way. Dinna go tae camp—meet by the road, like yer headed tae Nor'am'ton," Robin said quickly, his voice low and harsh with urgency; then jerked Marian along with him as they separated again, to meet up in the forest. The soldiers were bearing down on them now, urged on by promises of wealth and threats of pain by their respective employers: the Sheriff and the Prince.

Marian had never run as quickly as she did now, pulled onward and steadied by Robin's tight grip on her wrist. They were stopped by only one tiny group of soldiers who, judging by their lack of alertness, were on break. They put up minimal fight, not even managing to seize their weapons before the two outlaws had burst through the cluster of them. Leaving dazed confusion in their wake, Robin and Marian kept running.

Pausing for just a second, to get their bearings and catch their breath at the edge of the trees, Robin slammed into Marian with a cry of warning, shoving her aside. She stumbled, and fell to her knees. He dropped too, briefly, taking the arrow that would have hit her straight in the heart through his shoulder for his trouble.

"What the—_Robin!_" Fear and shock rang clear in her voice, and he could see that her loch-colored eyes were rather wild as she reached for him.

Gritting his teeth, he snapped the arrow off, so he wouldn't get tangled in the woods. Then he shook his head, dragged her up, and pushed them both onward. "Keep goin'—dinna stop naow."

So they continued, with less speed, taking care to throw off their pursuers by doubling back, and using what waterways were available to them. They met the others in good time, nearly two miles away from Nottingham.

Neither Anthony nor George was with them—Much shook his head solemnly in response to Robin's questioning glance. Marian could hear the soft, regretful curse that the Scot muttered, and an even softer blessing in a language she didn't understand, and see the grief in his eyes, mirrored in the eyes of the others. Pain struck, twined with grief for her friends, before she pushed it down. Later would be time for grief. Now was for survival.

It would take their enemies at least an hour to organize a search, and in that hour, they would collect all they would need to flee for the various safe houses they had arranged for, scattered around the country. Fortunately, none of them as injured as Robin; Allen came close, with his hand cut near to the bone. Much was binding it tightly, trying to stop the bleeding. They could get away, safely.

The sound of hoof beats—coming from the town of Northampton—startled the outlaws. It wasn't a large party that rode toward them, but small and well armed enough to do them serious damage. The band behind Robin started to slip into the surrounding greenery, where they would be no more visible than ghosts if they chose.

"Nay. Stand. Tha's no' someone tae run from," the Scot warned, holding up a hand to halt their retreat. A grim resignation settled over him, leaving his face hard and closed. "'Tis the Lionheart, back from Germany. Ah can see 'is standard," Robin said, grasping the arrowhead he'd left in his shoulder to avoid leaving a trail of blood. With a sudden jerk that made Marian and a few of the others gasp, he ripped it out of his shoulder whole, ignoring the backwards facing barbs that tore at his flesh with gritted teeth. He snapped the spar in half and dropped it contemptuously to the ground.

"Trus' the Sheriff's men tae use shoddy craftsmanship," the Scot muttered, tracking the party of horsemen's progress with his eyes. They were fast, and came upon the outlaws swiftly.

"Greetin's, Mah Laird. Nay the most beautiful welcomin' party ye've had, Ah suppose, but Ah 'ope we'll do. Welcome tae Nottinghamshire," Robin called to the King's party, his voice strong, and clear of pain. Marian could see Richard, her uncle, and staved off the desire to shrink behind Robin's broad back to avoid discovery. Richard dismounted with an easy, elegant grace that put her in mind of the outlaws' leader, and hurried over. The King of England was tall, though he fell about an inch short of Robin's height; he made up for it with a royal bearing. Blond hair was cut short in a very military style; his blue eyes were alert and sharp. Cat-like, with the poise and easy hauteur of any great feline, _Lionheart_ was an accurate title for this man. He ruined the effect somewhat by staring at the rag-tag bunch—covered in blood that wasn't entirely someone else's, and bearing empty quivers and strung bows—quite oddly, as though they had all grown second heads.

"Robin Loxley?" He was only mildly shocked by the Scot's presence, infinitely more shocked by the ring of raw flesh around the Scot's throat, where a noose had ridden, and recently, by the look of it. "_Bon Dieu, il est_—What in the seven hells happened, man?"

He seized Robin by the shoulders, not heeding the cries raised by several of the outlaws until it was too late. A dark patch spread around where he had pressed, and Robin stiffened and went grey. The Scot swayed a bit once released, and a woman dressed in men's clothes appeared by his side as though by magic, steadying him. Richard blinked once; certain he recognized her. Looking past the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the leaves in her recently cut hair and the men's clothes she wore; he discovered it was his niece, Marian.

"_Marian?_ Niece, what are you doing _here_? What has been happening while I was in Germany?" Marian almost winced at his tone—it was scolding, and Richard had always been frighteningly good at scolding. But she didn't, just supported Robin, whose body had begun to shake. His hand tightened on hers, the pressure tight enough to make her fingers ache, though Robin didn't seem conscious of the action. Richard had not yet released him, having a firm grip on his upper arm instead of his shoulder, and noticed the shivering.

"What's happened, Marian?" he asked quickly, reverting to the French he preferred, and evidently recognizing that Robin was reacting to the wounds, in no shape to give a report. Marian explained the outlaw's story swiftly, as abbreviating as much as she dared. Richard nodded quickly, demanded the full story the minute the time presented itself, and caught Robin by the other shoulder. Pulling out a dagger—and ignoring an alarmed shout from Much; he quickly and carefully slit the ragged tunic that Robin wore down the middle, to allow his physician a chance to get to his wound and treat it.

He'd always liked the tall Scot, and would rather Robin didn't die until he knew what, precisely, was going on. The king had wondered if the villainous Robin Hood he'd heard so much about since landing in England was his redheaded acquaintance.

"Nay, Majesty, _dinna_—" It was too late. Richard and Marian saw the wounds that Guy's lash had caused—it had taken a good deal more than eighty to finally satisfy the sadistic prince and his devilish lapdog. Marian choked in horror, and Richard blinked in shock.

"_Mon Dieu!_ The Sheriff of Nottingham hasn't the right to do this to anyone—criminal or not!"

"T'wasn't the Sheriff, Laird. 'E's tae much a coward tae inflict a lot 'o serious damage. 'T'was—" Robin's voice faltered and his face went hard with agony, as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out. The adrenaline that had numbed the pain was wearing off quickly, and now the pain was coming back in sick, greasy waves of nausea. Richard and Marian supported him as his knees buckled from under him—he could feel them vaguely, as though there were some kind of barrier between him and them—and Richard shouted for a physician as Robin's vision went dark, and he surrendered his consciousness. Oblivion swallowed him—not for the first time since his captivity began—even as his friends held him up.

Robin blinked back the darkness, to find himself sitting astride his king's horse, Richard behind him.

"Sit tight there; Loxley," the Norman king said bracingly, "and we'll have you all to Mapperley, where we can sort this mess out like civilized people."

"Aye," Robin murmured, and blinked again, looking around, trying to puzzle out the unreality of his surroundings. The others in his band were riding double with royal advisers, none of them looking particularly comfortable with their riding partners. Much was missing from the group, he noticed, though the others that had rescued him were all present—except Will, and Anthony, and George. The thought sent another pang through him.

Much, he soon learned, had been sent for the few outlaws who had remained at the camp. He returned not long after the band had gotten to Mapperley; bringing with him Friar Tuck, who'd insisted on coming to care for any wounds, and Sir Richard.

Mapperley stood like a mountain of grey stone, sitting high on a hill, overlooking the forest. Flags of red and gold flew from the turrets—welcoming the king and his entourage of advisors and outlaws.

The inside was equally grand, with tall, vaulting ceilings and smooth pillars thicker around than two men. Arches seemed to be the style, for there must have been dozens of them here, there, and everywhere. Little alcoves for statues and other treasures were dispersed liberally around the magnificent halls, displaying what must have been an emperor's ransom in art and fripperies. The outlaws gawked, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as they were led to the wing they were assigned to, where they would reside until a decision was reached regarding the consequences of their actions. Tuck, when he had arrived and was led to his law-breaking friends, was utterly appalled by the wounds that the outlaws had sustained in what he termed their 'little jaunt to the Nottinghamshire Fair'. He bustled about industriously, binding Allen's hand, doling out witch-hazel for bruises, and liniment for sore muscles. All in all, he growled, the outlaws had been lucky.

When the good Friar saw Robin (who had been reluctantly confined to a bed, on Maud's orders) he nearly had a conniption fit—and went to work, ranting about how the royal healers had wanted to _bleed_ the Scot, of all things. Hadn't he bled enough, for God's sake, Tuck had grumbled. Robin had decided, wisely, that it was best not to antagonize the man by answering. The friar gave him some poppy for the pain instead, and insisted that he swallow a small bundle of herbs that seemed to do nothing more than give Robin a nasty headache. Then he'd doused the various wounds and cuts Robin had collected in whiskey.

Tuck had wanted to do more, but beyond allowing himself to be bandaged, and his arm put in a sling, Robin's willingness to cooperate had evaporated after the scene with the alcohol. Instead, they had engaged in a snarling match that resulted in Robin utterly refusing to be treated anymore, and Friar Tuck throwing up his hands in disgust. Allen's hand was giving Friar Tuck more trouble, so the Scot was left largely to his own devices after that, grumbling about wasting perfectly good _usquabae_i.

Robin refused to lick his wounds in public, preferring to stay on the move when he was injured. So he could be found basically anywhere in the castle or on the grounds, but rarely, if ever, in bed, where Friar Tuck and Maud were convinced he should be.

* * *

"You know what my favorite part of outlawing was?" Much inquired conversationally, leaning back against the battlement.

"Nay. Wot was yer favorite part o' ootlawin'?" Robin was sitting—as much of a concession as he was willing to give to the interfering busybodies who would prefer he stay horizontal—perched easily in the space between two crenellations. He had his tartan back, and was grateful for it—the November winds were cold. It would snow soon, he noted idly. Already there were thick, fluffy white clouds looming, just waiting to drop their cold, wet load on the world.

"When we all came to our senses again. Robin, Mapperley has beds. _Real_ beds. It's wonderful."

"Ah suppose." Personally, Robin had yet to get used to sleeping on something so soft. He was still used to sleeping in the great oak in camp, used to its bumps and solidity, the easy swaying in a breeze and the danger of falling that made it essential to sleep sitting wedged tightly in a suitable crevice.

"Remind me why we spent two years running around in the woods, sleeping in trees when we could have slept in beds?"

Robin's brow furrowed, and he turned his head to stare incredulously at his friend of countless years. "'Ave ye fergotten tha' t'was _ye_ who suggested we take t'the forest? _Ah_ 'ad nay problem wit' hangin'. Ah di' kill the man, af'er all."

"Psh. The bastard deserved it," Much returned good-naturedly.

"Ah'm no' sayin' 'e didna, fer 'e did. Ah'm sayin' tha' Ah kilt 'im, and tha' Ah should 'ave hung fer't. Ah'd've gone 'appily enough, kennin' tha' the bastard 'ad gone wit' me." Though he hadn't relished the feel of hemp around his throat, when at last he'd felt it, and he didn't look forward to the likelihood that he'd feel it again.

Much turned to eye the Scot critically, abruptly weary of the Scot's pessimism. "Yer in a right awful mood today, aren't you? You know, if you're in pain, Tuck told you that you can get something from him."

Robin glared; irritated that Much would even suggest it. "Ah'm no' gettin' anathing from 'im. Ah dinna need anathin'."

"If you're in pain…"

"Ah'm no' in pain, Much!"

"Fine." Much said, standing up straight. "Then either go eat somethin', or take a nap. You're touchier than a wounded bear."

Shaking his head, he stalked away.

Puzzled by Much's behavior, Robin got up, frowning. His temper was short, aye, but no shorter than normal. The king had yet to inform him of the decision that had been made about the outlaws' fates, several of his people were injured, and, damn it, as gilded as the cage was, they were all still in a bloody cage. The Scot shook his head in weary bafflement. No one he knew, aside, perhaps, from Marian, could baffle him as well as his best friend.

But his ribs _did_ hurt; and whatever Tuck had given him _was_ making his head pound anew. Yes, lying down for an hour would probably do wonders for his temper, he conceded to himself. That nap would probably do some good, even if it only took him out of the path of other irritable people.

"No! Get away from me! _Stop!_" Marian screamed, praying that someone would hear her cries and help her. She struggled in the soldier's arms, scratching, clawing, and biting—trying to escape, and wishing she hadn't given Robin back the little dagger so soon. The soldier threw her on the bed, and pinned her to it before she could struggle away, trapping her legs with his, grabbing for her wrists with ham-sized hands. She screamed again, before he cursed and threw a pillow over her face, nearly smothering her. She could feel him rip the dress she wore, baring her to the waist. She was terrified, and galvanized by that fear, she struggled madly, despite the dizziness that was coming on from being smothered. His rough, vicious hands grabbed her breasts, punishing, while he muttered disgusting, cruel things. Her last scream was muffled.

A loud crash, and a cry like a wolf's, feral and harsh, could be heard from somewhere very nearby; and then the soldier was ripped off her, shouting and spitting obscenities. The second his grip had loosened, Marian lashed out, and then bolted from under him, fleeing blindly. Another crash, and then a grunt of pain could be heard.

The sound of fighting quieted quickly, ending with a long, heartfelt groan of pain that made her huddle under the table she'd fled beneath, still sobbing with fear—she couldn't get to the door, not while they were blocking it. A warm hand touched her cheek, and she flinched away, whimpering despite herself. She struck without looking, shoving against a hard male chest, and had her hand trapped there by another hand. Her face was cupped, guided up, until her eyes met gentle blue ones, framed by flaming hair.

"Marian, 'tis jus' me. Ah willna hurt ye, Ah promise. Ye're alrigh' naow, 'e willna touch ye. Come on naow, come on oot. Shh. Dinna cry. Ye'll be alright."

Robin guided her out from under the table, and let her bury her face in his chest and sob. It was fortunate that Marian wasn't shorter, he thought, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. She'd have been leaning directly against his wounds if she were shorter. As it was, they were burning like fire where blows had landed.

"I-I tried to fight him—he was too strong. I didn't want it—I was minding my own business—he grabbed me from behind—" She couldn't bear the thought of Robin believing she'd encouraged the soldierii—not when she loved him so.

"Ah know, Marian. Ye did fine, lass, ye did fine. Ye were wonderful, Marian, love. _Ach shin agad cloinn-dhìolain siùrsach cloinn cràdhadh a, a gaol_…" He meant the threat, every word. The man wasn't dead yet, after all. If he was to hang anyway for his crimes, Robin fully intended to commit at least one more murder for it.

But that would come soon enough. Right now, though, Marian was all that mattered, and he wouldn't have her touched by more violence, not if he could spare her that.

His tone had gone harsh for a moment, as he growled what sounded like a vow for retribution in the rapid, liquid tongue that she recognized now as Highlands Gaelic. Then he stroked a hand down her back in a comforting gesture and, moving slowly, so as not to frighten her, he drew off the tartan _fheilidh_.

_He's been outside recently_, she thought for no particular reason, as the sobs grew less harsh. The smell of winter clung to his tartan, mingling with his scent. Then she stiffened in his lap, a tiny whimper bursting free as something else occurred to her. _Why is he taking it off?_

He winced a bit at her whimper, but merely pulled the plaid around her instead, and he returned to using his usual, fluidly accented English.

"There naow. Ye're cova'd, an' all's well. Shh," he soothed, when she stirred and would have pulled away. "Jus' stay still a momen'." Robin stroked a hand down over what remained of her hair as she shuddered against him, the last of the sobs gradually giving way. "Why di' ye cut yer 'air, lass? 'T'was beautiful 'air. Ah liked it long." He wasn't expecting an answer, but spoke to give her the comfort of a human voice, to reassure her and draw her mind from what had just happened.

"'Ere," he stood up when her breathing was back to normal and tears no longer threatened to start again, drawing her up with him, setting her down on her feet. He led her out of the room and back to the other rooms that the outlaws had been given; avoiding the unconscious soldier on the floor and locking the door of the room from the outside.

She was still shaking, nearly vibrating, with tension when they reached the corridor where their rooms were located. Robin hated the idea of her terrified, so he pulled her back against his chest, and let her get the rest of her tears out, half-hating that he enjoyed it so much. But it was so nice, being allowed to touch her for a legitimate reason. And at the same time, it was so horrible, that rape would be the only reason he could allow himself to hold her.

After she'd calmed down, he knew he'd have to go jump in the moat…or maybe not. He suddenly felt cold straight down to his bones. Blinking back an abrupt dizziness, he leaned back against the doorframe, thinking it'd be over in a second…whatever it was. But it wasn't, and he felt increasingly ill.

"Robin?" He struggled to concentrate on the sound of Marian's voice, but found it difficult.

"Jus' dizzy, tha's all. Ah'm fine." Contrary to that belief, Robin was not 'fine'. Blood had started to stain the white cloth of his tunic where wounds had reopened, and Marian could feel his fever through the bandages Friar Tuck had insisted upon and his tunic. Tuck had warned the outlaws, out of Robin's earshot, that this might happen, that torture often caused sudden fevers in its victims.

So, rescuer turned unwilling invalid, Robin had to let her to lead him stumbling to his room. Marian had barely gotten the Scot sitting on the bed when he dropped into unconsciousness, his body weight pulling her down onto the bed as well and pinning her there in his arms. She struggled briefly, to see if she could move, and found him unmovable as stone. Unable, and not quite willing to escape his unintentional embrace, she tugged the bedclothes up around them as best she could and settled down to wait, trying to make him comfortable. No one would miss her until at least tomorrow morning, so there was no chance of discovery…err, rather, rescue. The worst thing that could happen, she decided, was that Robin would wake and treat her coldly again. That, after the kind Robin of today, would surely break her heart. For now, she would merely enjoy having his arms around her.

* * *

"Noo—no' her—oh Laird—no' _her_…" The tormented moan startled Marian out of what had been a dreamless sleep, despite the lack of volume of the sound. She turned, to see Robin beside her. He'd curled up tightly, almost into a ball. The outlaw's knuckles were white, as was his face. But it was the expression he wore that surprised her the most. Pain, though not pleasant, wasn't what surprised her as it washed across Robin's face. The fear etched into the lines of his face, though, startled her. The combination of pain and fear were unpleasant to see in Robin—who so often seemed invincible. Now, in the grips of a nightmare, he seemed as human and fallible as them all.

_The old dream was back again. Once more he entered his house. Once more he ran to his mother's aid, and attacked the magistrate. Once more he was thrown back, and the man finished his nauseating business. But then it changed. _

_His mother's hair wasn't red any longer. It had turned short and chestnut-colored. Her eyes weren't green—they were sea-blue. Robin stared in horror at Marian, her body broken and used, with tears streaming from her beautiful eyes. And the man in the doorway—it wasn't the magistrate—it was __**him**__. _

_Then he was himself, with the boy he had been fifteen years before staring at him with terror and revulsion, Marian broken by his actions._

_ "This is your fault!" _

Robin bolted upright, eyes wide and wild. Marian stared at him in shock, not expecting him to have woken so violently. The Scottish outlaw only stared at her for a moment, eyes disbelieving. _Nay—Nay, Ah couldna 'ave. Ah wouldna 'ave…would Ah?_

Mystified, Marian put a hand on his arm. Robin's stared at her in growing horror.

"Robin?" she asked, worried now. He jerked from under her hand, jumping off the bed. Shock mingled freely with the horror in his expression as his brain registered the bruises on her face and arms and the fact that Marian wore only his tartan and the tatters of what had once been a dress.

"Robin, what's wrong?" Concern was evident in her voice as she reached for him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He backed away, head shaking in mute denial. She rose quickly from the bed and stepped toward him, until he'd backed into a wall.

"W—wot di' Ah do tae ye?" it came out in a hoarse whisper as his shoulders hit the wall behind him. Marian's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean? You haven't done anything." Marian told him, extending her hand to touch his cheek. Robin recoiled from her, as though he expected her to strike him. Marian was bewildered.

"Robin, what on earth's the matter? I'm not going to hit you." The look he flashed her told her that he didn't entirely believe her.

"Maybe ye should've," his voice was brittle, hard and harsh against her ears.

"_What?_ Why would I? What's wrong?"

A croaky laugh forced itself from him, filled with the horror she'd seen in his eyes, and now, disgust. "H-how close ye were tae somethin'…somethin' irreversible." He couldn't have done it. She wouldn't be looking at him, much less reaching for him if he'd raped her, if he'd put those bruises on her.

But why couldn't he _remember_ not doing it?

He was stuttering, she marveled, and speaking nonsense. It was nearly unthinkable, Robin being so out of control. His accent had thickened, and he trembled. This was no simple nightmare. Soon he'd be speaking Gaelic, and she wouldn't understand him at all.

"What are you talking about?" she wasn't getting any sense out of him.

" Ah cannae stay wit' ye. Ye cannae be 'ere."

"Why?" Robin wanted her gone, and it hurt more than she cared to admit.

"B-because. Marian, there's no' a way this can work oot right. Ye 'ave tae leave."

It was as if someone was driving a heated spoon through her chest, trying to remove her heart, each word another inch toward her center. Leave? What did he mean? The room, Mapperley? The—oh, God—the band?

"I don't understand. Why, Robin? Is it me? Is this some kind of test or something? What is—"

Panic was building up in her chest, just under her heart. Why was he trying to make her leave the band _now_? Why hadn't he done it months ago, before she could fall so deeply in love with him, before she could grow to love them all?

"Nay," he looked horrified. "Oh Laird, nay. Nay, Marian. It's no' ye—that Ah swear."

"Then what is it?" she demanded, trying not to sound hysterical.

"Marian, Ah'm no' fit tae even touch ye—Ah've—Oh Laird, look a' yerself!" he took an unsteady breath, trying without much luck to stop shaking. "People git hurt aroound me, Marian—_Women_. An' Ah—Ah'm a greedy bastard for wantin' ye tae stay, fer even sayin' yore _name_. Ye've got tae leave."

Robin couldn't look her in the eye. How could he look her in the eye when he couldn't remember whether or not he'd put those bruises on her? Whether or not he'd—

He wasn't asking her to leave the band, she realized with overwhelming relief; he _wanted_ her to stay. But what in the world was he talking about? And where had he gotten the idea that _he_ was _greedy?_

"I don't believe you, Robin." Marian said calmly, more calmly than she felt. "You'd never hurt a woman."

"Ye think Ah'd _lie_ aboot tha'? Aboot _tha'?_" Robin demanded, eyes suddenly hot as flame. "When yer standin' right there in front o' me, cova'd in marks?."

She took a step back under his sudden attack. He jerked his head away from her, shame and horror washing through him as the outlaw recognized her retreat for what it was. What right had he to take this out on her? Gods, what had he _done_?

"What are you talking about? Do you even know?" she asked desperately, now frightened by the degree of agony she could see so clearly in the Scot's eyes.

"Ah'll hurt ye. Ah've already—" no, he couldn't say it, not aloud. _Coward_. "—isn't it enough tae know Ah'll hurt ye again?" he was begging her to hate him. It would be so much easier to let her go if she would just hate him, if she would just turn away already and leave him to whatever hell it was he deserved. He would accept it—would have gladly taken it for even the thought of doing such a thing to her.

"Oh, Robin. You won't hurt me—"

Robin laughed again, a more self-derisive, bleak sound Marian had never heard in her life; one that horrified her.

"Would ye look a' yoreself, Marian? 'Aven't ye enough of an idea what happens tae me when ye're aroound? Ah want—" You, here, now. Again. "Ah could kiss ye right naow, an' neva stop, di' ye understand?"

Marian shook her head, staring at him with baffled innocence. The innocence in her eyes nearly broke him. He had—had—

"I wouldn't stop you," Marian told him tremulously, unsure of what his reaction would be.

Robin's body stiffened, still backed to the wall, and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from touching her. He wouldn't, couldn't let hope into his heart. Couldn't tell himself that he hadn't—hurt her—not when he couldn't remember it. When he spoke, his voice showed the strain.

"Nay, ye dinna understand. Ah wouldna—couldna—stop there. Ah'd push ye right daown on tha' bed, an' trail kisses right daown yore beautiful liddle throat." _Again_.

Marian was surprised by his intentionally crude statement. But what surprised her more was the reaction her body had to his words. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, fiery need flooding through her. Gooseflesh spread up her arms and down her back, somehow erotic, like thousands of tiny needles struck her.

"An' tha' cloth yer wearing? Tha' would stop me as much as a babe kin stop a runaway Clydesdale. Ah'd kiss evra damn inch o' ye, 'til ye couldna remember yore own name, much less try tae stop me."

Robin shuddered again, fighting to contain the desire that was flooding him. Would he ever be able to _not_ want her? Was the possibility that he'd raped her, hurt her, not enough to quell the desire?

It vaguely occurred to her that she could barely remember her own name now. Marian was still quivering from the sound of Robin's voice telling her what he would do, might still do, would give almost anything to do, to her.

"A-and then what would you do?" She asked, voice quavering, staring up at him. She could almost feel him shaking, not even three inches away. Robin's eyes, dark with desire and fierce self-loathing, narrowed. He was shaking from a strange mixture of passion and abhorrence now. If he even so much as brushed against her, his fragile control would shatter, and he would take her, despite everything that had happened.

"Ye wan' tae punish me, dinna ye?" The Scot asked harshly, before continuing in a ruthless whisper. "Bu' Ah'll tell ye. Once ye were all aquiver from the kisses, Ah'd push ye daown flat and cover ye wit' mahself. Then, oh-so-slowly, Ah'd press intae ye. Ah'd relish evra single damn second o' takin' ye for mahself. Ah'd fuck ye, Marian—like a bluidy animal."

His breathing was ragged as Robin glared down at her, his belly roiling with the effort to keep from being ill. "An' 'ow d'ye feel aboo' tha', Marian? Ah want tae keep ye tied tae mah bed until Ah kin get ye out o' mah head. Ah want ye ana way Ah kin get ye, Marian," he growled. "An' obviously Ah've no qualms aboout takin' ye, wit' or wit'oout yer consent." Why wouldn't she run? He was trying to chase her away—why wouldn't she run, like a sensible person?

Marian merely stared up at him, eyes wide with the shock that had cut through the pleasure haze that his terse words had produced. He thought—he thought he'd hurt her, thought that he'd done what _the soldier_—

"No, Robin—You—"

"An' Ah've frightened ye," Robin snarled, mistaking the shock for fear. Self-loathing and suffering were clear in his face and voice. Then the anger fell away, and only weary despair was left in his face.

"Ahh, damn me tae hell anaway," he sighed. The Scot seized her upper arms, as though he would set her away from him, and instead dragged her against him so he could savage her mouth with his.

_Hot._ It was all she could think—hot and wild and breathtaking. And then his tongue touched her lips tentatively, startling her into opening her mouth. It swept in, invading her mouth with the devastating skill of a veteran campaigner.

As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he pushed her back, holding her at arm's length from him.

He couldn't. He couldn't touch her, couldn't knowingly force her, not again.

"Stay away from me, Marian. Fer both our sakes, stay the 'ell away from me!" And he fled past her, like a coward, seeking the safety of the battlements.

The door slammed behind him, leaving Marian with tears threatening to overcome her.

He thought—he thought he'd raped her, thought—oh, who knows what he thought himself capable of? He had ripped himself away from her, had hurt her, and insulted them both with his words.

i _Usquabae_: Whiskey, in Scots

ii

Rape: Usually, accusations of rape came down to the woman's word against the man's. Rape was considered a very minor crime, no worse than the theft of a loaf of bread, for example, and the men often blamed the woman for 'leading the man on.' The woman very rarely received any kind of justice, unless they had a very powerful protector, like a lord or the king.

*It should be noted that this soldier was not among the more intelligent of his kind.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_Mapperley Castle, England. Mid-November_

Much found Robin standing on the battlements outside, staring across the scenery without seeing any of it, hands fisted tightly at his sides. Nevertheless, he turned around when Much approached, and the Saxon decided that that was a good thing. He wasn't so absorbed in his thoughts that his instincts had been dulled. Much boosted himself into one of the crenellations next to him, looking out over the trees and fields. It would snow soon, he saw, tonight, perhaps, maybe tomorrow.

"That was a nasty row you had with Marian," He remarked, noticing how Robin flinched at her name. He didn't know what had happened—he had been walking by when Robin had slammed out of his room and escaped to the battlements. Worried, he had followed the Scot.

"Ah—Much—Ah canna remember. Ah acted like an ass," the Scot said, panic staining his words. "Ah shouldna 'ave yelled at her, or treated her like tha', but Ah canna remember."

"What? What do you mean?" Much asked.

"Earlier. Ah canna remember." Several emotions flashed over the Scot's face, ranging from panic to despair. "Ah can'na remember half o' t'night, an' Marian—Much, she's cova'd in bruises."

_Bruises?_ Much nodded, baffled. God knew it wasn't Robin who'd put these bruises on Marian. "Aye?"

His friend turned disgust-filled eyes on him, lifted his hands as if they were foreign to him. "She was in mah bed, 'er dress torn tae bits, cova'd in bruises."

Much blinked. "You don't think you did it? Robin, you great idiot, you could no more rape a woman than fly to the moon," he exclaimed.

"Much," the Scot said, shaking his head. He seemed almost dazed with horror, startlingly helpless with the thought that he could have done such a thing. "Ah canna remember. Who's tae say what Ah did or no'?"

"Marian!" Much cried. "She'd know, wouldn't she, if you tried any such thing?"

"Aye, an' Ah've frightened 'er already, even if Ah didna take 'er." Would he get used to it? Robin wondered. The greasy horror that knotted in his belly—would he live with it for the rest of his life?

"Robin, she wouldn't have just lain there and taken it. She'd have fought, screamed. Someone would've heard, and come."

Robin frowned suddenly. "There was a soldier. Damn't, why won't 't come clear? Ah remember a soldier, an' Marian—Jesus God, Marian was cryin'."

"I'll bet you anything you ask that t'was the soldier who put those bruises on her, not you," Much muttered. "Look, it's easy enough a thing to find out."

He took one long look at the Scot, saw that his friend was remembering at last, saw the hellish, bone-deep rage in his eyes as it erupted, and hopped down from his perch. "I'll talk to Marian, then, and leave the soldier to you."

Robin looked over at him, eyes flat with murder. "Mah thanks, Much."

"The moat's probably deep enough to stash the body," the Saxon murmured speculatively. "And there's always the forest, if it comes to that."

"Nay need. Ah'm thinkin' the Lionheart t'will take an interestin th' bastard, an' take tha' problem off our 'ands," Robin replied, striding away with the cold look of death in his eye.

"Marian?" Much asked, two minutes later, knocking on the door Robin had slammed less than ten minutes before. "Marian, are you alright?" The door opened, revealing Marian. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she clutched Robin's tartan to her body. Much suspected that it was Robin's tunic she wore as well. And her bruises… Well, now. No wonder Robin had immediately thought the worst of himself. She was sight enough to make the best of men doubt themselves, much less the scarred Robin.

"Much." She sounded surprised.

"Aye. I've just talked to Robin. Are you alright?" he asked. Robin hadn't touched her, but Marian almost certainly didn't understand why Robin had reacted as he had.

"He—he didn't touch me. Much, he thinks—he thinks he—"

"I know, Marian. It's all right. He's remembered."

_Good Lord_, Much reflected, _Robin's done it this time. Fool._

Why did he have to play nursemaid to these two? He wondered privately. They were adults, perfectly capable of sorting themselves out. So why couldn't they situate themselves in such a way as to make everyone happy, instead of stalking around, snarling because they were both too boneheaded to take what they wanted? For that matter, why couldn't he have found some other bandit gang to join? The drama of this one was driving him mad.

_But Robin and Marian's children will be adorable_, he consoled himself, _if they ever get past this damnable period of indecision._

"What happened last night?" Much asked, redirecting his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

"Here, come in. It may not be my room, but I don't think Robin will mind much," Marian said, standing aside to let him enter.

"What happened?" Much asked again, when she had turned around.

"One of the Sheriff's men tried to—" she shuddered, and forced her voice to stay strong. "Tried to force himself on me. Robin saved me. Afterwards, he developed a fever and passed out on top of me. When he woke up," she shrugged helplessly, "he jumped up, and we fought. Then he ran." She frowned, worry making a line between her brows.

"He said…said he'd hurt women before—that's not true, is it?" Marian hadn't believed it before—not with Robin standing in front of her—but now doubt was worming its way into Marian's mind, forming a tight little knot in her stomach.

"What do you think? Robin would never intentionally hurt any woman, an' you know it." Much said, sounding weary. "He got a nasty shock, I wager, waking up to find you covered in bruises, looking—well, looking as you do." He smiled apologetically. "You don't inspire confidence, Marian. And he's reasons of his own for reacting how he did."

She frowned. "What—"

"It's not for me to say. He'll tell you in his own time."

"He won't tell me, Much. He was so angry when he left, he won't tell me anything."

"Nonsense. He wasn't angry with you, Marian. It's never even crossed his mind to be angry with you. You scared him, is all, with your bruises. He couldn't remember what had happened."

"He could barely look at me, Much."

"I believe you. Robin was horrified, Marian. He honestly thought he'd raped you, put those bruises on you. He loves you," he watched as she scoffed, and frowned slightly at her. "As difficult as that may be to believe. That and a fever? He wasn't thinking clearly," Much explained.

"He had just woken up from a nightmare," Marian offered. "But Much, he said horrible things—insulting things."

Much sighed, shaking his head at the inability of such an intelligent woman to see the depth of the man's terror of rejection by those he loved. Better, he knew, to reject first, rather than be pushed away.

"He'll regret it, believe me." Already did. "And his nightmares are bad ones. They bring back memories for him…and he's not good at waking up from them immediately."

"He seems to think that he's going to hurt me."

"I think it's safe to say he'd never do that intentionally." _And if you make a liar of me, Robin_, Much thought, _I'm coming after you myself._

* * *

A knock at his chamber's door disturbed the King from the business of ruling. He looked up from the velum before him, blinking a few times, to clear his eyes. Between the flickering of candles and the damned English language, he'd go mad within a fortnight, he was sure.

"My lord?" questioned his clerk, the invaluable Samson. He nodded, giving the man leave to let in whoever was outside.

"Mah Laird." The Scot stepped into the room. His face was grim—as grim and fierce as it had been the first time the King had seen him, back in Palestine.

"Robin," Richard greeted, and sat back in his chair. "What brings you to my room so late? Please," he nodded to another chair, indicating the Scot should sit.

"Nay, Ah thank ye," Robin replied. He shifted once, ill at ease. He didn't seem to know how to start. The Lionheart sensed that he needed privacy for whatever it was, and signaled Samson to leave them. The short, slender man slipped out, shutting the door gently behind him.

"Thank ye," Robin murmured. But still, he hesitated, fighting briefly with himself before he finally started. "It's...Marian, Mah Laird. She's a'right," he promised quickly, when Richard jerked in his chair. "She's fine, save fer a few bruises."

"Bruises?" The Lionheart thundered, springing up. "What do you mean, _bruises?_"

"Aye." Robin didn't flinch when his monarch seized him by the shirtfront, shook him like a doll. "She was attacked, by a guard. One o' the Sherriff's, Ah believe."

"Where is he?"

"Ah took the liberty tae detain 'im in the same chamber whiles Ah—" _passed oout next tae yer niece_. "—took Marian back tae the chambers we were giv'n." He waited a beat, until the Lionheart had released him. "Ah took the liberty tae beat the shit oout o' 'im first. 'e's still in tha' room. Ah thought ye'd want tae talk tae 'im, a'fore Ah kil't 'im."

"Indeed." The King's voice was ice-cold. His eyes sharpened on Robin's. "Who gave you leave to kill him?"

Robin's eyes went to ice as well. "A man attacked one o' mine, Mah Laird. Tha' means 'e's mine tae deal wit'. 'e tried tae rape 'er," the Scot continued harshly. "Ah gave mahself leave tae kill 'im."

"You've no right," Richard said, watching him closely. His own rage was boiling, but something about Loxley that overshadowed that. The man would have done the same for any female—had, he knew, back in Palestine. He couldn't fault Robin for it. But there was something

about Loxley's eyes right now…something deeper, infinitely more dangerous than the simple rage of a protective leader, or even the sick, fear-spawned rage that Richard was feeling for his niece.

"Ah'm no' in'eres'd in rights," Robin replied, cold as a winter in the Highlands. But under the ice, Richard saw the heat, and wondered. "No' when't comes tae this."

He's in love with her, Richard decided. He might not have known Robin well, but it didn't take a genius to see that the man was sick with love.

"And if I don't give you leave, you'll kill him yourself, will you?"

"Aye."

"Take me to him. I'll have a word with this soldier. And then, Robin, we will see."

The Scot's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. "Come wit' me, then. Mah Laird."

* * *

He determinedly avoided her for two solid days after, going out of his way to elude her. It went far beyond what small efforts he'd taken in the forest, but he couldn't go anywhere near her. Robin knew his own weaknesses, and if he was alone with Marian for more than a few moments, he'd probably pin her to the nearest surface and take her. Already he tortured himself with the bittersweet pleasure of the kiss he'd stolen. The memories of her mouth, sweet and soft and untutored were enough to bring him to aching hardness. The knowledge that he'd never taste her again was its own hell.

No better than the soldier he'd saved her from, he thought, disgusted. He had noticed her freezing suddenly in the middle of whatever she'd been doing, her face growing pale around the vicious bruises as she remembered the traumatic moment in the spare bedroom. It only served to make him feel worse. She was scared stiff, and all he wanted to do was push her down and…could he even call it 'making love' to her? Would she ever see it that way? He wondered. He hadn't—thank God—raped her, and neither had the soldier, who'd never get the chance to touch another woman. But he couldn't seem to rid himself of the feeling that he'd sullied something precious by touching her at all. And he couldn't help but want her with all he was.

She didn't just need protection from the lecherous soldiers, Robin mused bitterly from across the room, silently watching Marian's skin whiten and her eyes go dark as she determinedly refused to freeze into stillness while she helped Maud into a chair—she needed protection from him too.

Marian quickly grew tired of being evaded by Robin. She was nearly positive that he had some kind of feelings for her—hell, she thought angrily, she knew that he had _some_ kind of feelings for her. Lust was one, and she knew he cared at least a little. Didn't he watch her, his eyes dark with worry and want? Weren't there other things, darker, fiercer things, beneath the worry and the wanting? Marian was determined to find out what kind of feelings the others were; and if they were negative, change them.

How to do it, though?

She thought back to their…argument, for want of a better word. However one would describe it, Robin had put her weapon in her hands. He wanted. The outlaw had told her exactly what he _wanted_ to do, even if he would never let himself do it under ordinary circumstances…

_Well_, she thought, pleased and disgusted with how easily a solution had come to her, _then I'll just have to set up some extraordinary circumstances, won't I?_ That thought in mind, Marian set off to find the man she loved.

* * *

"Marian—ye canna do this," he whispered, moments before her mouth claimed his. "Nay—_dinna!_"

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise for half a second. Marian had never heard Robin beg anyone to do anything. He wasn't a man who made a habit of pleading. The tone of Robin's voice was strained and his eyes revealed the fear he felt.

Not fear for himself, she understood with a jolt, but for her—for what he was afraid she would bring out in him, what he might do to her when that happened.

It was gratifying that he cared so much. And infuriating that he'd pushed her away instead of pulling her closer.

The damnable woman had backed him up against a wall, cornered him in his own room. They both knew he was trapped, that the only way out was through her. Robin sucked in a desperate breath of air, recognizing the gleam in her eye a second before she kissed him. Marian's lips touched his tentatively, unsure of what to do.

It terrified Robin that she had such power over him, that she could arouse him merely by looking at him, how Marian pervaded through his thoughts like a poison gas. Robin had never wanted a woman so badly in his life; not just in his bed, but as his wife, bearing his children. He wanted her to love him back with the same intensity that he loved her.

The Scot cut off that rein of thought. Not only did he have no right to want her like this, but it hurt like a knife to the gut, knowing that he wouldn't ever have her, right or no.

What could he offer her? Marian was the niece of the King of England—the granddaughter of old Henry II. A princess.

He, on the other hand, in the best light, was only the son of a second-son merchant, unable to even keep his holdings in his own hands. He had only the clothes on his back and his knives. Even his bow was gone, broken to the point of uselessness until he had the chance to make a new one. Soon, he was likely not to have his life. He was an outlaw, wanted for robbery and banditry…and the murder of several Norman citizens.

The king was still deciding what was to be done with them while they nursed their wounds, but Richard wouldn't overlook thosetransgressions—couldn't, not as King. Never mind that Robin had saved his life. No one life could take the place of another.

And even as the sane part of his mind told him these things were true, and that he shouldn't touch her, Robin's disloyal arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, crushing her to his lean body; and his traitorous tongue was deepening the kiss. It might be wrong of him, and he'd probably go straight to Hell for it—but, God, did he want her.

The outlaw clung to Marian desperately, like a man drowning, ignoring the outcry his healing wounds were raising when her weight pressed against them. He needed her, so badly he could weep from the wanting, and by God, he was going to steal this moment of her, consequences be damned.

Due to their proximity, Marian could tell just how awfully he wanted her, just how much he was sacrificing by not acting on the almost overwhelming desire that roared through them both. The hard ridge that pressed against her belly complained of and demanded things that Robin would never allow to be verbalized—was, she realized, too much the gentleman to verbalize—no matter his state of agitation. Marian knew very little about what went on between a man and a woman, but she was observant, and the maids had always gossiped far too much amongst themselves for her not to understand _that part_. Growing up on one of the largest farming estates in the country had left very little to the imagination, over-all. It was just the finer points that escaped her.

The kiss broke for air, and Robin surprised her again by trailing kisses up her jawbone, and sucking at her earlobe; making Marian go limp for a moment with a cry. Robin's heartbeat was erratic under her palm and his breaths whispered unsteadily past her ear as his passion choked him. One of his hands reached up to tangle in her hair, caressing her face first; while the other arm remained firmly around her, holding her close, like he needed her for continued survival.

Marian soon found that she needed the support his arm gave her, because Robin's lips left off tormenting her ear and reached her throat instead, making her knees go weak beneath her. She writhed under his touch as his tongue caressed and his teeth nipped gently at her skin; never hard enough to leave a mark.

"Ye like tha', do ye? Ah'll remember tha'," he promised into the hollow of her throat, no longer caring that it would hurt a thousand times more when he had to stop. He would take this moment she had offered him and wrap it close, against the chill of solitude. Marian's hands unconsciously weaved themselves in his hair, pulling it free of its binding; tugging him closer still, and urging him on. Robin's lips traveled the length of her long, graceful neck, running over her collarbones with feather lightness and agonizing care, until they traced down over the fabric of her gown. Fumbling with it, he freed one of her breasts of the confining material. Ignoring her chemise, the outlaw continued to leave kisses around the whole of it, making Marian moan again from the pleasure. Infinitely patient, knowing this was all he would ever be allowed to do, he allowed his tongue to caress the already hardening peak, taking it to an almost painful tightness. When Marian thought she couldn't possibly experience any more bliss, Robin took her breast into his mouth, suckling it through the thin cloth that separated them, leaving it damp. Finishing with that side of her, he slid her dress back up and turned his attentions on its twin.

"Marian—_mi fhìn gaol a__i_—_a leithid_ii…_ a leithid e ciùrr__iii_..." his voice was soft, stumbling over the words, the Gaelic liltingly gentle this time, more of a caress than actual words.

Marian moaned his name, snapping him back to his sensibilities more effectively than a bucket of cold water to the face. He pulled away from her silk-soft skin, yanked her dress back to its proper position, knowing and damning himself for going a good deal too far. He'd been so thoroughly intoxicated that he'd started to do exactly what he'd sworn he wouldn't do—ruin her.

"Wh-why did you stop?" Marian asked, bewildered.

"Ah cannae give ye wot ye deserve," Robin said in response. Here was the longing, the angry desolation, the denial, coming back to his blue eyes as he shifted back, away from her, his arms slipping from around her. "Ye deserve someone who cannae cause ye harm," He winced, as though struck for the impudence of even thinking it, "…who can give ye a home, an' a family." He shook his head sadly. The thought of a family, a home, with Marian…subtle torture. He wanted it so badly, and he knew that he would never have it. Even if the King spared him the hangman's noose, Robin imagined he would be back to Palestine before he knew what hit him. Back to war, back to hell. "Ah cannae. So Ah cannae touch ye, either."

"But I don't want that now…I want you," Marian said softly, reaching up to weave her hands into Robin's long freed hair again.

He caught her hands by the wrists, tugged them away. If he let her touch, he'd go crazy with the wanting. What, after all, wouldn't he give to have her?

The possibility of the stigma of bearing a bastard, his bastard, and knowing that having her would steal from her one of her most precious bargaining tools for getting a respectable husband: her virginity. That's what he wouldn't give, wouldn't risk.

And God, what kind of masochist was he, wanting what he couldn't have, and more, what he _knew_ he couldn't have?

"Why?

"Ah'm naught but an ooutlaw. Ah've kilt men, stolen their baubles. Ah'm goin' nowhere but th' gallows, lassie." And, thank God she was who she was, so that he wasn't taking her with him. His conscious would remain clear of that, at least.

Marian looked up at him, meeting the hopeless, angry eyes with her own. Her fingers itched to tangle in his red mane. He didn't seem to realize his own worth.

The idiot.

"Why do I want you?" She asked. "Because even though you're an outlaw, you're still a good man," Robin started to protest, but was silenced by the rest of her sentence. "Besides, I'm in love with you. And I'll remind you that I'm an outlaw too."

Robin Hood showed no sign he heard the last, instead, he stared, disbelief warring with amazement. Marian loved him back. The thought of it was astounding, like some shiny gift suddenly handed over after he'd been told he couldn't have it.

He didn't quite know what to make of it.

She watched his face. There was blank shock there, and…nothing. She saw none of the joy that was bubbling up inside him.

Bastard! She had summoned up all of her courage to tell him that, all of her love, all of her hope. Refusal was excruciatingly painful, especially when he didn't even make the effort to say anything, only stared. Bastard, she thought again, and wanted to scream it.

Dignity, though, was infinitely better than anger or, god forbid, hurt.

"Never mind, then. A slip of the tongue," she said grandly, trying to find the door blindly as she fought back tears. Oh, she could hate him for doing this to her, for making her love him and not having the courtesy of loving her back. And that's what she would do. She would hate him until she could feel nothing again—it was only a broken heart, after all. What was a broken heart but one more challenge to overcome?

And why didn't that help?

"Marian, wait, Ah—" he caught her only with the tips of his fingers as she flung open the door. His grip was pitiably weak at best, and she could have easily pulled away from him and left the room. Panic flitted through him, and she had broken the wall of ice he had been trying to nurture for months—she couldn't say such a thing and leave!

But she didn't. Despite herself, despite the hurt she intended to nurse into a good, fiery hatred, she paused, hearing desperation in his voice.

Robin found some hope in that, though he didn't try to pull her to him, or take a firmer grasp on her hand. He simply held onto her hand and watched her with those piercing blue eyes of his.

"Did ye mean it? Ye—" he could scarcely believe he was getting this chance to ask this of her. "Ye love me?" He wanted to brush away her tears. And kiss her, hold her so that she'd never go away. He didn't—not before she'd answered.

But those tears…they were enough to break any man's heart on the spot.

"Of course I do. You think I'd lie about that?" She asked in horror, staring at his face, closely echoing his words to her. This time, though, she saw the fierce, desperate need that shone in his eyes. Hope lit them at her words, and depthless, nameless joy. He yanked her against him, roped his arms around her as though he thought she might run. He needed only a step back to have the bed hit his knees and he sank onto it, drawing her to stand between his thighs.

"Nay, Ah knew ye'd no' lie tae me," he growled tenderly, and drew her head down and kissed her, wiping away her tears lovingly. "An' Ah'll no' lie to ye. Ah do love ye. Damnable though t'is, Ah do. Ye dinna speak Gaelic, or ye'd know."

He kissed her again, before resting his forehead against hers briefly. "But ye dinna know evrathing aboout me, lass. Ah'm no' a—a safe man tae be wit', Marian. Ah meant it when Ah said women git' 'urt aroound me. Ah canna risk ye."

"Tell me. Tell me what you mean by that," she demanded, seeing the hell in his eyes.

He sat for a moment, frowning, and for a moment, she thought he'd deny her. Then he pulled her gently onto his lap and, slowly, quietly, he began. "Mah mither was Scottish, the daughter o' Laird Malcolm o' Dhu Lairg. Mah father was Saxon. Tha's why Ah've Loxley as a las' name.

"'E was a second son, turned tae the sea tae make 'is fortune. 'e died there. Slaughter'd by pirates." Robin shrugged. "There wasna a lot o' money left. Ah met Much when Ah was aboout six. We became mates, both o' us lurkin' aroound daown in the slums o' Nottingham. There's work there, if'n yer quick. We were verra quick." He grinned, the flash of teeth feral before it faded.

"Mum worked as a seamstress. We lived in a liddle cottage near the fores'. After mah father died, she 'ad troubles wit' the Magistrate. 'e was the Sheriff's brother, an' God, di' we all 'ate 'im." Anger flashed, lightning-keen, through his voice. "'E took evrathing mah mum made sewin'. Said t'was fer taxes," he spat the words. "We both went wit'oout food more'n once, an' she made sure Ah ate, even if't meant she wouldna. Ah dinna know 'ow long't went on, a few years a' leas', 'til we finally couldna raise enough. So 'e jus' took 'er, instead."

"_What?_"

"'E raped 'er, Marian. Ambushed 'er in 'er own 'ouse—a woman 'alf 'is size, beat an' raped 'er."

"Oh, _God_."

"Aye. Ah came in as 'e finished wit' 'er, tried tae stop 'im. 'e took evrathin' from 'er—even 'er dignity. She slit 'er wrists in despair, so they buried 'er on unconsecrat'd groound. Ah couldna stop tha', either."

"Robin—"

"Nay, if'n ye stop me, Ah'll neva finish it. Mah gran'father took me in, oop in the 'ighlands. Ah was eight, or so, Ah think. 'e gave me an education, an' kept me there 'til Ah was seventeen. Les' see, t'was aboout six years ago, when 'e disowned me."

"_Disowned_ you? Why?"

He smiled at the anger in her voice, and firing her eyes. "Easy, lass, nay need tae rile yerself. T'ain't disowning, so much—Ah dinna know 'ow tae translate 't. Bu' Ah knew all the while tha's wot 'e'd do. Tae keep 't in the family, ye ken? T'was an honor, really. Means 'e didna think Ah'd need the 'elp tae survive. No' an insult a' all. Ah'd 'ave in'erited from mah father's side anaway—mah gran'parents on tha' side'd died, as 'ad mah uncle. But Malcolm promised me a place, if'n Ah needed it."

"Why haven't you gone there before now?"

"Ah dinna want tae bring this trouble daown on them—wot sort o' thanks would tha' be? Ah left Scotland fer the 'oly Land, tae follow the Lionheart. Ah met Much again there. T'was 'ell, tho', Ah kin tell ye—worse, after Ah lost mah taste fer the cause. We took Jerusalem, and the men…t'was as tho' they forgot their wives an' sweet'earts an' mithers a' home. They jis' went af'er evra women they saw, willin' or no'." He shook his head, his anger baffled this time, but no less horrified.

"They—"

"Aye. Bought the ones tha' could be bought, raped the res'. Ah tried, an' Much tae…bu' wha' could we do? Two aginst 'ow mana hundred? There was one lass—Liviona, 'er name was. 'er mither spoke a bit o' Latin, an' Ah kin the same. She asked me tae keep 'er lass safe."

"Oh no. Robin—"

Robin's voice went flat. "Barrat o' Fairbrook got 'er while Ah was on sentry duty."

Marian moaned, hurting for him. He wrapped his arms around her, recognizing her need to offer comfort even though he couldn't bring himself to take it. "Ah forced 'im oout o' the army, but t'was tae late fer Liviona—t'is the only way a lass kin git a decent 'usband there, apparen'ly. She was shamed fer somethin' she couldna stop—somethin' Ah didna stop. She was only twelve.

"Aboout two weeks after, Much an' Ah stopped six o' Saladin's men from takin' the Lionheart, so we came 'ome early a bit early."

"Why?"

"'E asked wot we wanted fer a reward," he replied with a shrug. "Anaone'd 'ave done the same, reward or no'. Ah 'ad mah estate, Much was goin' tae be seneschal fer me. Bu' they were gone."

"Gone?"

"Aye. Gone. The Sherriff took 'em when 'e heard Ah went tae Scotland, Ah suppose."

"But that's—"

"Illegal? Nay, no' the way 'e did't. Claimed Ah wasna a citizen. Ah am, bu' Ah was in Scotland then, an' tae young tae fight't. Ah couldna claim 'em. So Ah star'ed the process tae git 'em back.

"Aboout a year an' a half later, tho', 'alf-way through the legal battle, Ah saw the Magistrate. Jist walkin' daown the street, 'e was, right in front o' me. Much was wit' me, an' we followed 'im." Robin paused, made her look him in the eye with a hand on her chin.

"Ah kilt 'im, Marian, walked right intae tha' big 'ouse o' 'is, and kilt 'im. Ah'm no' sorry fer't. Ah'd've hung fer't gladly, but Much tugged me intae the forest. An' then people star'ed comin', like Ah was some sort o'…Ah canna tell ye wot they thought Ah was. Ah'm a murderer, an' a thief. Tha's wot Ah am, Marian. A murderer an' a thief. Christ, Ah couldna even keep 'em safe—Maud's eyes, Will an' George an' Anthony—God, even ye." Robin spoke flatly, but his face was full of emotion—regret, pain. Disgust and grief for the losses. "Guy o' Gisbourne stabbed ye tha' night, a' the contest. Ye took a blade meant fer me, Marian," he shook her a little, eyes bright with rage. Rage, she knew now, fueled by old terror and self-blame, kept locked tightly inside him.

"Robin—"

"An' all Ah could think," he continued furiously, "was tha' Ah'd lost ye, tha' ye were goin' tae die."

"Robin!"

He blinked at her, sure that he'd never heard that mixture of impatience and irritation in her voice before.

"Aye?" The heat of his anger drained—she was, after all, safe here in his arms. And then cold drenched what was left of the heat. He was suddenly afraid—terrified. He'd gone a very long time without the words she'd given him. Robin wasn't sure if he could go back to living without them, now that they'd been said to him. What would he do, if she took them away?

"It's not your fault." Her tone was as direct as her eyes, so empty of blame or disgust that for a moment he didn't understand.

"Wot?"

"You never touched the women, right? And you did the best you could to protect them, yes?"

"Aye, bu'—" Didn't she see? He hadn't protected them—he'd failed, and they had gone away.

As, he suspected, she would.

"You did everything you could. It isn't your fault that you couldn't save them all." How many had he helped, had benefited from his presence? she wondered. How many, throughout his life, had he stood for without even realizing it? Marian hugged him tight. "Robin, you've saved them simply by remembering. So many others would have ignored it—you've started a campaign against injustice."

"Ah wouldna go tha' far," he muttered, flushing, feeling relief roar through him in ridiculous amounts. He hoped she never realized how terrified he had been that she would spring away from him, horrified.

"I love you." How could she help but say it again, with it flooding through her like a bright river, tumbling and powerful?

"Ahh, _brèagha agam__iv_. Ye'll turn mah 'ead wit' yer flirtin' if yer no' careful." He was a poor excuse for a sweetheart, certainly not a match her uncle would approve in marriage. But, and he smiled a bit, if it meant that he had some right to feel the happiness that currently sang through his veins, it would do. Anything that gave him even the slightest bit of an excuse to hold Marian close would do. "_Mo ghràidh__v_."

"What did you say? Mow gh-rad-eh?"

He chuckled—he couldn't help it. "_Mo ghràidh_," Robin corrected. "Beloved. _Brèagha agam_. Mah lovely."

She blinked. She hadn't expected pretty words—not from him, not now. So she melted a little, loving the beautiful, incomprehensible language he gave them to her in.

A knock sounded at the open door. Neither of them had remembered to close it, but Robin found that he didn't care who saw them—with the possible exception of the Lionheart. He had no desire to tangle with a man who would be well within his rights to have Robin executed on the spot for touching his niece.

Instead, it was Much. He had an eyebrow raised at them, a speculative expression on his face, brazenly wondering just how far they'd gotten. Robin never would've let her sit in his lap if he hadn't told her what happened, and the fact that her hair _and_ his hair had been loosed and tousled was always suggestive…

"Well, now. Am I interrupting something?" he asked, a wicked grin gracing his face. He rather hoped he'd interrupted something.

"Nay," Robin replied, knowing full-well that Much would have liked nothing better. "Nothin' o' interest. Ah jus' finished tellin' a wee storie, Much. Are ye disappointed tha' Ah didna invite ye tae the tellin'?" Robin's voice was light, cheerful as he mocked his friend.

Much grinned unrepentantly. How long had it been since Robin had last spoke without the awful weariness in his voice, in his eyes?

"Nay. We both know I'd have driven you mad, filling in the details. Did he bore you overmuch, Marian?"

"No, he didn't bore me," Marian said softly, holding her man tightly. His arms were strong, and still wrapped close around her. Robin tightened his grip around her for a second, sending a warm thrill down her spine. No, nothing about him could have bored her.

"_Gaol_vi."

Much knew the word, knew that Robin meant it, and he smiled again, then left, closing the door behind him, some impertinent comment flung over his shoulder as he left.

Robin ignored him—he'd deal with Much later. He had much more important things to do.

"Wot aboot ye, Marian? Ah know yer the Lionheart's niece an' ward, an' tha' yer family wanted ye tae marry yon Sheriff, but tha's all Ah know aboot yer past. Will ye tell me?"

She sighed, snuggled closer against him. "Only if you tell me what you said."

"Love," he murmured, giving in to the urge to indulge himself, and drawing in the sweet scent of her hair. Lord, she smelled good. "'t means love. Tell me."

"Fine." But she didn't start immediately. "Where to start?"

"The beginnin'."

"Well…okay. My father was the fourth boy, Uncle Richard's younger brother."

"Geoffrey."

"Yes. He was a good father, I suppose. He let me do mostly as I pleased, so I was quite the hoyden as a child."

"Yer mither?"

"She was a Saxon woman he met, fell in love with. He married her within the month, against the family's wishes. She was Johanna—I don't know her last name. She died when I was born, and everyone I talked to only ever called her Johanna."

"Wheel, mah God," he muttered, and pulled back to look at her face again. "Much was right. Yer Johanna's daughter. Ye didna know ye where a Whitewell?"

"What?"

He laughed, the rich sound beautiful to her ears. "_Gaol_, yer Much's…cousin. We'll call't tha' fer naow. Yer mum was 'is cousin. Di' ye neva know?"

She blinked. "No, I didn't know. Did he?"

"Aye, 'e suspected. But finish yer tale."

"Well, he remarried, according to Grandfather's wishes. She was…difficult. Very difficult. But she gave him two more daughters and finally a son, so Father was happy enough. But she wanted me to be her idea of a lady, and," she smiled. "Let's say her idea and mine were different."

"Ye made 'er life 'ell, didna ye?" he chuckled at the thought.

"Yes. But then Father died, when I was ten. She tried to make me mind her, after she found out that she couldn't get to the inheritance my father had left me. My uncle stepped in as my guardian, and he let me do as I wished, or I found a way to do it anyway. So she tried to make me marry the Sheriff of Nottingham. I assume she made some kind of deal with him. I don't know why—she had more money then she could have spent in three lifetimes."

"Ye ken as well as Ah that some cannae have enough."

"Yes," Marian sighed. "I ran away. I didn't think anyone would look at Nottingham—why would I have gone to the same place that the man I didn't want to marry lived? I would have had to go to a covenant, but I didn't want to have to before I, well, had to. So I disguised myself, and found work. I was used to living off meager funds; Constance had control of the allowance I was to receive until I married."

"An' then Ah kidnapped ye, an' dragged ye off intae the wilderness."

"Yes, then you kidnapped me, and dragged me off into the wilderness. And Constance and Arthur were killed in a carriage accident two months ago. So I have what's left of the estates and two foolish half-sisters to take care of."

"Ye'll do't, an' whell, tae. T'is a kind lass Ah love, an' clever, comin' 'ere. Does yer uncle know ye've a head fer strategy? 'e ought tae consult ye fer battle plans," Robin murmured into her hair, silently thanking any listening gods—Gaelic or Christian. The stepmother may have been a bitch in nearly every sense of the word, but he'd met Marian because of her. He smiled, and ran a calloused hand down lightly over her hair. She smiled too at the touch.

"I would hope so. He's the one that taught it to me. He never would teach me how to fight with swords or daggers, though." She seemed oddly disappointed.

"Ah'm no' sure ye could lift a sword, lass." Robin's eyes were alight with humor and delight, "They're a mite heavy—a' least the ones Ah know. Ah'll teach ye a dirk, tho', if ye like."

She smiled beautifully at him, her whole face lighting up. He felt it send warmth through him like a wave. God, he loved her.

So full of the love that he felt he'd burst, he cradled her face, tilting her head back so that he could rest his forehead against hers.

"Ah love ye. Ah canna tell ye ana more than tha', Ah've no' the words. But Gods, 'ow Ah love ye." He kissed her, lightly, sweetly. And then again, deeper.

"Show me, then," she urged, threading her fingers through his hair. "Show me what you can't say."

He shook his head, denying her. "Ah'll no' take ye—no' when we're no' married. Marian, Ah can'na," but his hands ran restlessly up and down her spine, from the flare of her hips to the nape of her neck. And wanted her, more than he thought he could bear.

"Yes, you can. Robin, I want you," she murmured, arching to his hands. "I want this." Strange, she thought fuzzily, that she didn't fear it, the first time. He wouldn't hurt her, she was certain. His harsh groan was her reward.

"Nay, nay, Marian, Ah'll no' take ye naow. But Ah kin give ye what ye want," he rumbled suddenly, a devilish smile lighting his face. "Aye, Ah can do tha', luv. D'ye trust me?"

"Yes." She didn't feel helpless, giving herself. She felt strong, impossibly strong. "Yes," she repeated, pressing another kiss to his mouth. Heat coiled in her belly, burning and tightening.

He groaned again, and twisted so that they tumbled over onto the mussed bed. "We kin stop at ana time, luv. Jus' say the word."

"I won't," she whispered back, "now love me—please, Robin, I can't stand it any longer." She writhed beneath him, wanting the contact, wanting the strange tension that knotted in her belly to ease.

"Easy, mah love, easy. Ah'll take care o' ye," he promised, shifting off of her and to the side, so that he could touch her all the more easily. The outlaw bent his head, taking her lips, seducing with tenderness, and then scorching with heat and light and power. His hands ran along her body, lighting fires within her as he brushed aside her clothes. It wasn't until she was fully naked, and he had looked his fill of her that he made his next move.

Slowly, intolerably slowly, he kissed her face—cheeks, forehead, eyelids, jaw-line. He moved relentlessly down her throat, lingering here and there, lapping and sucking against her skin until she was panting, certain that she'd go mad from the wonder of it.

A strong, hard hand lit upon her breast like a dragonfly, so light and gentle she arched to increase the contact. But he denied her again, easing back until she gave up struggling.

"Nay, luv, none 'o tha'," he whispered against her flesh. "Patience, tha's the key."

She wanted to scream. Instead, a whimper came out, needy and thin.

He caressed her breast again, flicking lightly over her nipple so that she gave a gasp. It responded immediately, tightening to a hard little point. He did the same with its twin, tormenting her with the slow, airy brushes of hand against skin until Marian squirmed with the unbearable agony of pleasure.

"So beautiful, _gaol_. Ye bewitch me, Marian."

He didn't give her a chance to respond, but bent his head again and pulled one of her tightened nipples into his mouth. She nearly choked with the pleasure it sent spiraling through her, her hands flying up to grip his hair and hold him to her. It was glorious—the hot, wet roughness of his tongue against her sensitive breast. His hand coasted down her soft, lithe body, enjoying the satiny smoothness of her skin, to rest against her hip.

She was prefect, he marveled, perfect in every way. Perfect for her imperfections, perfect for her strength and bravery and for just for being her. Robin left her nipple and went to the other, lavishing the same treatment on it until she did cry out, and shuddered against him. He enjoyed her pleasure—enjoyed knowing that he was the first to give it to her.

"Robin—Robin, please—"

"Ah know, lass, dinna worry, Ah willna leave ye like this," he assured her, and brushed his hand over the triangle of golden curls that guarded her femininity.

She jolted, sea-green eyes snapping open to stare at him with shock and pleasure and a very innate, very innocent fear.

"Nay, Marian, ye've no' tae fear from me. Ye ken tha', aye? There will be nay ana pain, no' t'night. Nay ana pain," he murmured, kissing her again. "Trust me, Marian-love. Ah'd soon'r die than hurt ye," he whispered, and carefully, gently, cupped her warmth. He parted the petals of her tenderly, and slipped one finger into her. God Almighty, she was so hot, so soft. Already, she was wet, and so incredibly, stunningly tight that it made his head spin.

She jerked from the sensation, whimpering with the pleasure, and clutched at him when he tried to move away, thinking he had scared or hurt her.

"No. Do it again," she demanded on a breathless sob. The coil of heated need was threatening to explode within her—it was so very near pain that she wanted the explosion, or anything to relieve the endless waiting. Robin smiled, a flash of understanding brightening his eyes, and did as she bid him to, fingering her until she was begging for him.

He shifted then, kissing his way down her body, so the combined touches of his hand and mouth made her ache to be filled, until he finally lowered his head a third time and kissed her in the most intimate way of all, covering her entrance with his mouth and caressing with his tongue.

She cried out, trying to find her balance on a high, narrow pinnacle of pleasure, and wobbling like a top. It was sensual torture, the same heat that had assaulted her breasts now _there, _where she barely dared to touch. His tongue slid into her, tasting her and flicked against the inside of her core.

"Let go, lass. Dinna fight this, jus' let it go," he murmured as she cried out again, and bucked under him. He withdrew a bit, and slipped a finger into her, easing it in and then out again. He felt her tighten, and nearly groaned as his own arousal became painfully insistent. She was so sweet, so wonderful; he wondered what he could possibly have done to deserve this chance with her.

Then he touched a tiny little point of her body, one she hadn't known existed. It was an electric shock, roaring like fire through her, and sent her up in a blaze, knocking her headfirst off the peak, and into what had to be Heaven.

Robin watched as her back arched, and her eyes went blind; heard the satisfaction in her voice as she spilled into his hand.

Though his own body went unfulfilled, he was oddly content with that, content simply to be with her. The outlaw moved to lie beside her, drawing the tangled linen sheet up to cover her bare body. He hadn't anticipated the wave of aching tenderness that would swamp him after this, hadn't expected the love that had plagued him for months to deepen and intensify with their lovemaking. He hadn't realized that what he felt could get any stronger, but it had. And now he knew—he wouldn't be able to let her go, regardless of what stood in his way.

She felt him move, felt him cover her with the blanket. She was enveloped by Robin's lanky frame; his heat warmed her side, his arm slipping beneath her head, the other resting on her abdomen, and her legs tangled with his. Marian could sense his eyes on her, as blatant as a caress against her skin, and opened hers to meet his stare. There was strain on his face, and satisfaction.

"Yer alright?" his voice was husky, the Scottish burr deeper than ever.

She smiled, very nearly purred in contentment. "Yes. It was beautiful, Robin. I didn't realize—" Then she blinked, frowned. "What about you?"

He chuckled, the sound slightly ragged. "Ah plan tae go'n jump intae the moat in jus' a few minutes, lass. 'Til then, Ah'll make do wit' Latin conjugations."

"Latin conjugations?" she repeated, completely baffled by him. "Why?"

"So Ah dinna break mah word, an' take ye like'n animal, Marian. Ah've gotten verra gud a' mah conjugations recen'ly, lass," he murmured suggestively, then groaned as though in pain. "Ah've got tae go naow, love."

He left her there, naked beneath the sheets, with a nearly chaste kiss on the mouth, feeling both loved and utterly bemused.

i_ Mi fhìn gaol a:_ I love you

ii

_A leithid:_ So much

iii

_A leithid e ciùrr:_ So much it hurts.

iv

_Brèagha agam_: my lovely

v

_Mo ghràidh: _beloved.

vi _Gaol_: Love


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

_Sherwood Forest, England. Late November_

Robin left the safety of the brush, wincing slightly as he had to twist to avoid a thorn bush and the movement pulled the strips Guy of Gisbourne had taken out of his hide, and his shoulder. They were nearly healed, but sudden movements still hurt a bit, and his shoulder still gave him trouble in the mornings and when the wind bit just right. He wanted to get back to Mapperley quickly—the King was planning to reveal their fates today, and Marian waited. The road was easier to walk on—the snow wasn't so deep there, and he was close to Mapperley.

Th-thud. Th-thud. Th-thud. The Scot lifted his gaze at the sound of the horses that were fast approaching him, the thoughts of warmth and Marian pushed to the side as his inner alarm bells began going off.

"That the one that the Prince wants dead?" One of the riders called to his companions.

"Aye. Ain't a lot o' Scots 'round here."

Robin stiffened and drew his dirk—the long dagger was his only source of protection since his bow had been broken—and kept it hidden against his thigh. His fingers curled around the small horn he'd been given at the keep. There were about five riders, more than he could take on, hand to hand, at the moment. He glanced toward the forest beside him, but he wasn't in any shape to lead them on a chase through the snowy woods, and the riders had more or less surrounded him. They were treating it as a joke or a hunt, calling insults and jeering.

Fortunately, they were armed with swords, which would be hard to wield so close to the trees—those he could deal with.

The outlaw waited until they started to dismount to give the horn a long blast, and then lunge forward to attack.

They said 'the best defense was a good offense.' Whoever 'they' were, Much had heard, and the gregarious Saxon had passed it on. 'They' should be shot, he thought irrelevantly. The best defense was not having enemies, and being prepared on top of that.

And he had been neither.

* * *

The horn's blast had done its job. One of Mapperley's sentries had heard and sent up an alert.

Marian and Much followed Little John as he followed the trail of disturbed snow and the occasional blood splatter. They were becoming more and more frequent, which worried the giant. The amount of blood on the road meant that whoever had attacked Robin hadn't gotten away with it unscathed, but…

A flash of red caught his eye—Robin's hair, more disheveled than usual.

It was all Marian could do not to faint—and she had never fainted in her life. Red of a more vital kind stained his clothing, his blood having flowed from the stab wound in his abdomen down his leg and soaked the soil beneath him. It had obviously slowed considerably, but hadn't yet stopped. What was considerably worse was that whoever had stabbed him had dragged him into a goodly distance into Sherwood and tied him up—insuring his death, whether by blood-loss or exposure. Cords held him immobile, his wrists connected with the thick, low branches of two good-sized oaks. Robin was nearly unconscious, his brilliant blue eyes blank and dull. He was supported only by the bonds that held him prisoner; his knees weren't touching the snowy ground, even though his legs had given out from under him. The Scot's clothes were ripped and dirty and wet, his tartan torn to shreds in several places. His dirk had been thrown in the snow beside him—its blade red with blood that could have been his own.

Robin raised his head slightly when he heard them, a stuttered curse falling from his lips, but he would have been completely helpless to stop them, had they wished him further harm. Blood had trailed down from both his temple and the corner of his mouth, and a nasty bruise was quickly forming on one of his cheekbones and a small cut bled on the other.

Much dashed forward with a cry, pulling out a knife, to sever the ropes that held Robin. Little John pulled out his own, to cut the other. Robin could do nothing to save himself from the fall, but it mattered not—Marian caught him as his knees hit the bloodied snow, nearly collapsing under his weight. For one so slender, the Scot was surprisingly solid.

They carefully turned Robin over, letting Much look at the deep wound. Much's jaw tightened more, and he had to shout at Robin to keep him awake, as he tried to staunch the blood that flowed with renewed force.

"Robin! Don't you dare fall asleep on us, you stubborn bastard! Robin, damn you, open your goddamned eyes! This can't kill you—it can't! For the love of all that's hold holy, _open your damn eyes!_"

The Scottish outlaw's eyes flickered open, his gaze exhausted and glazed from excessive blood loss. He knew the danger of sleep, but his eyelids felt so heavy, his sight so blurry and unhelpful.

"Can you hear me?" Much demanded, not liking the effort it seemed to be for his friend to keep them from closing. "Who did this?"

"Aye, Much. Ah can hear ye." Robin's voice held none of its usual strength; instead, it was barely audible and pained. Much pressed his cloak against the wound, more or less stopping the blood that flowed. "Th' Prince…sent men…"

"We have to get him back to Mapperley," he muttered. "Robin, hold this still." Much ordered sharply, trying to gauge how quickly they could move him. Robin nodded, and pressed the bloodied cloth against his side with all the force he could muster.

"Little John, can you carry him? He hasn't the strength to stand, much less walk."

Little John nodded, and hefted his leader carefully. A paroxysm of pain wracked through the man, making his pale skin go even whiter. His breath came in gasps, irregular and rapid, as though the knife had pierced his lungs instead of his belly.

Within ten minutes, they were back in sight of Mapperley. Robin was undoubtedly unconscious by now, though the tunic was still clenched tight against his side. Much was positively beside himself, muttering direly to himself, Little John was worried in his usual stoic, silent manner, and Marian was in a state of shock not far different from Robin's. The day's surprisingly good weather seemed almost mocking now, ironic that the world could continue so calmly around them while a good man died for another's thirst for foolish revenge.

Friar Tuck was summoned immediately, a light-footed pageboy sent off at a sprint. The priest arrived at Robin's chamber on the inside of a minute, muttering something about arrogant pages. He stopped dead when he saw the blood-drenched party in front of him, and all the color drained from his ruddy face when he got a second look at Robin, limp and pale in Little John's arms.

"_Robin!_ Good Lord! Put him on the bed, _now!_" He demanded hot water, bandages, sturdy thread, and a good needle; all of which were fetched. Little John was sent off, to change out of bloodied clothes and inform the remaining outlaws of their leader's plight. Marian was almost similarly dislodged, but proved too stubborn to leave Robin's side. Much paced outside, unable to watch Tuck sewing his friend up like a ripped tunic.

It took Tuck an hour, though it seemed indefinitely longer, to get Robin's wound clean and stitch it up, a practice that made Marian wince every time the needle punctured his skin on either side of the wound that was killing him by inches, before he placed a poultice over it. Tuck took advantage of her determination, and employed her in supporting Robin's upper body while he wrapped bandages around the outlaw's lean waist. The Scot's head lolled back and to the side; resting against Marian's shoulder; and his skin was clammy to the touch, from the pain. His breathing was slightly easier now, although still a labored hiss of agony. She wondered how it could be possible, when only hours ago, the day before, they had made love in this very same bed, both of them healthy and whole?

Finally it was done. Tuck leaned back, a sigh passing his lips. Much burst into the room, half-mad with worry. At his back were the remaining outlaws that Robin had not sent away before the Sheriff had caught him. Little John, Gabe, Will, George, Maud, Anthony, Allen and his wife, Anne; and Much made up all of what had once been Robin's band. They all came pouring into the small chamber behind the short man.

"Tuck—will he—?" Much couldn't bring himself to finish what he had begun to say. The good friar stood.

"If he lives out the night, I believe he'll make it. He has the best chance of any one of us…Has anyone informed the King?"

"They have." His deep voice came from the doorway. The outlaws melted out of the way, letting him pass to the bed. Richard the Lionheart stood tall next to the bed where Robin Hood lay unconscious. The blond man stared down at the Scot, whose loyalty had stood even in outlawry. Tuck quietly shooed the other outlaws out, recognizing the need for privacy.

Only Marian stayed behind, despite her blood-covered clothing, braving the King's potential wrath. To her surprise, the Norman ruler turned to her with a small smile.

"Did Robin ever tell you that he and Much saved my life?" He inquired, almost gently.

"In Palestine, Your Majesty?"

"Aye," he agreed, the term falling off his tongue almost awkwardly. "That was the time. What did he say about it?" Richard's voice was deep and thoughtful.

"Not much, Highness. Only that anyone would have done it, put in that position." Marian watched her monarch gaze at Robin. There was no way to read what he was thinking by watching his face. He laughed softly.

"Did he now? That sounds like him. His grandfather's influence, no doubt." Marian didn't quite know how to answer that, and stayed silent.

"No, I have my doubts that anyone else would have done what he did." Richard spoke again suddenly, returning to the earlier topic. "Robin is an …extraordinary man, as you've no doubt discovered. I like to consider myself his ally, if not his friend." There was an odd glitter in the king's eye when he said this. "And since when have you called me by my title, niece? I'm still your uncle, am I not?" he grinned slightly and shook his head at her shock.

"Ah, well. Be sure to keep him warm, now, and we shall all pray that the Lord does not see fit to relieve us of him just yet." With that, the Lionheart turned and left the room, leaving in his wake a very confused Marian. Taking her uncle's last words to heart, she pulled up the blanket, covering Robin's bare torso. Then Marian started to pray.

* * *

Robin's fever had not yet broken, and it was going on a fourth day. If this continued, Tuck had said, gently as possible, Robin would die. Marian was terrified that if she left him for even a few minutes, he'd finally slip away. Friar Tuck had Much or Sir Richard bring her trays of food when he didn't do it himself, which Marian barely touched, eating only enough to keep from passing out from hunger. She slept in snatches, in the chair at Robin's bedside, despite the worried looks Much, Tuck, and the others sent her when they came.

The Scot sweated and shivered alternatively, and was oftener delirious than not, though she could rarely understand the few things he mumbled. He spoke to Livonia, or he spoke in Gaelic. She watched in alarm as his slender frame became even thinner, having ingested nothing more than weak broth and water.

Her own appearance was disheveled and drawn. She was pale and her eyes often glittered with unshed tears. Robin lay quietly, damp with the perspiration that covered him in a thin sheen. Taking a cloth than had been soaking in cool water, she rung it out and wiped it over his face. With a soft groan, Robin turned away; the most response she'd had from him in over thirty-six hours. Barely daring to hope, she called his name.

"Robin?"

He groaned again, and then returned to stillness.

"Can you hear me? Wake up! Oh, God, Robin, don't do this to me. You have to wake up!" She shook him by the shoulders gently, desperately trying to make him open his eyes.

Why did Marian sound angry? Or was it sad? Robin couldn't seem to clear his head of the wool that seemed to have gathered there well enough to make the distinction. What was he doing, that she didn't want him to? Was she angry at him, then? Why?

God, but he was tired. He couldn't remember ever being this tired. The tiredness was dragging on him, pulling him towards the easy darkness that waited.

But what did Marian want…?

"Robin—Robin, please open your eyes. You have to live. I'll never forgive you if you give up! Robin, open your eyes! If not for me, then for Much and the others." The tears had finally broken the dam, and, sobbing, she begged and pleaded with him. When that failed, she wheedled and then demanded. There was no reaction from the wounded King of Sherwood.

Marian sat back down, and let her hands fall forward into her hands. She didn't bother to rein in the despair that flooded her. He was usually so strong, so—_alive_. Now, Robin was pale and unmoving—dying.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_Mapperley Castle, England. Early December._

Robin lay still, not opening his eyes. He felt confined, but that was just the bedclothes—he hoped. He'd had enough of cells and chains to last a lifetime.

Something was definitely lying on his arm, though. Blinking in the dim light of the room, he stiffly turned his head, wincing at the muscles that had tightened up while he slept.

His eyes softened at the sight of Marian, slumped forward, asleep leaning against the bed. It was she that lay on his arm. Her face was toward him, and he could see the tearstains. The thought of her shedding tears was painful. Besides, he thought irrelevantly, she was going to wake up with back pain if she slept like that.

"Marian—" Robin said. Well, he'd meant to say it. His voice had balked with disuse, and he had only mouthed it. Swallowing, he tried again. "Marian, _gaol_, wake up."

She stirred a bit, enough for him to pull his arm from under her and sit up painfully. It stunned him that he had so much trouble, and only served to make him more determined than ever to force himself to a vertical position.

"Marian," he used his newly freed hand to stroke her cheek. "Wake up, lassie." Her eyes fluttered open at the touch and the sound of his voice.

"Robin!" She flew upright, eyes wider than saucers. "What—you're—you're alright!" She visibly jerked, torn between throwing herself at him and her fear for his injuries.

"Come 'ere, Marian. Ah willna break." He smiled, and opened his arms, ending her hesitations. She was in them in an instant, holding him tightly, murmuring thanks mixed with dire threats of what she'd do to him if he ever tried something like this again, kissing him between every other word, and assuring herself that it wasn't a dream.

His arms wrapped around her, reveling in the closeness. Her hands were busy, they slid under his shirt, traced lightly over his chest. But when she pulled back, to divest them both of their clothes, he reigned her in. He sensed; a little, at least; the fear and joy and desperation in her, felt some of it himself. He had some experience with it, knew why Marian was trying to get as close to the skin as possible—to assure herself that he wouldn't disappear. It was himself that he couldn't necessarily trust; bare skin could be the very small prod that would be all it took to disrupt the tenuous control over himself that he had been holding so tightly since the last time he and Marian were in this bed together.

But regardless, he was determined to make it so their first real time would only happen when they were married. No one in England was going to be counting on their fingers about a child of theirs.

And all of those noble reasons paled in comparison to the fact that he sincerely doubted he could finish anything started at the moment. He felt as though he'd gone several rounds with Little John and then been tossed off a cliff.

"'Old up, Marian. Much as Ah want tae, Ah'm no' quite up tae tha' yet. Gi' me a few 'ours tae catch up wit' ye, a'right?" He shifted a bit, easing the pressure against his right side. Following his example, she pulled back.

Grinning wickedly, he pulled her against his left side. "Nay, Ah neva said tha' Ah wanted ye tae stop touchin' me, Marian-mine."

He kissed her soundly, running his tongue across her lower lip, requesting entrance. She opened her mouth eagerly to him. Robin's tongue slid in, examining and caressing every part of her mouth that he could reach, rubbing against her tongue as often as was possible. He could at least offer her this reassurance.

"Oh, God, how Ah want ye. Marian, ye've nay idea…" his voice was low, barely a whisper before he kissed her again. Never mind reassurance, Robin thought, for now satisfied to only kiss her. Marriage, if he could convince her—if he could convince the Lionheart—would be heaven here on earth.

Somehow, Marian's hands drifted from his shoulders to his, guiding them to were she wanted them. Feeling Robin's smirk against her mouth, she knew he liked what she was thinking. Sliding one arm around her, the Scot stroked her breast with the other, his thumb gently brushing over her nipple, making it go tight. His unoccupied hand dipped from her waist to her bottom and squeezed possessively. Surprised, Marian gasped.

"Wot's wrong, lass?" He inquired languidly, knowing she'd never been touched like that, and reveling in the knowledge.

"You—my—"

Robin smiled. "Mmm. Tha' Ah did. Ye've the most adorable rear, _gaol_." He squeezed gently, pulling her closer. She could feel the hard ridge of flesh against her thigh and found herself longing for him, more than ever.

He pulled away, something like a groan rumbling from his throat. "Marian, Ah can'na—ana more an' Ah won't be able tae stop. Ah love ye tae much tae ruin ye like tha'."

He took a deep breath then, and before he could think about it too much, plunged on.

"Will ye marry me?"

For a second, it didn't seem to register to her. "Ah mean—Ah can'na offer ye much, if anathin' t'all, bu'…" he trailed off, knowing there was little else he could say. "Bu' Ah love ye, Marian."

"W-what? Marry you?" Robin winced at her tone, but stayed silent for her answer, his hope diminishing fast as the seconds passed. Doubt filled the outlaw; what if she didn't want him? Had she changed her mind; come to the conclusion that she didn't actually love him? Robin knew what that would do to him. She was his one—his mate, his heart, his life.

"Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes, _yes_." She dove back into his arms, knocking him backwards, Robin's arms coming up to yank her tightly against him, her mouth absorbing the moan of pain that rose unbidden from Robin. He held her tight for several minutes, despite the pressure against his wound, which dulled in comparison to the unbridled elation that erupted within him. When they broke apart for air, Robin pulled her even closer, though she eased away from his right side, and buried his face in her hair. They stayed that way for nearly ten minutes, clinging to one another.

"Robin?" Marian's voice was hesitant when she finally spoke.

"Aye?"

"Will you teach me how to speak Gaelic?"

He turned to give her a questioning look. That had been not even close to anything he'd thought she might be asking. "Aye. Bu'…why d'ye want tae learn?"

"You speak it, don't you? You said that you told me you loved me in Gaelic. I want to change that."

Robin looked surprised for a moment, but then smiled. "'Ere's yore first lesson. '_Mi fhìn gaol a'_."

"'I love you'. Right?" She asked, remembering the other two times he'd said it. She loved this adorable, damnably dense man.

"Aye, yer right. An' Ah'll teach ye more, later. Right naow, Ah have tae go an' ask yore uncle permission tae marry ye. No' that that'll stop me, if 'e says nay," he assured her when he saw the slight look of panic, and properly interpreted it. "Ah'm no' givin' up on ye, Marian. No' if ye'll have me."

"I'll have you, alright, if I have to drag you to the alter myself." She remarked, a playful tone concealing the deadly serious intent. Robin looked at her again, having seen through the teasing.

"Ye'll no' have tae drag me, lass. Ah'll be there if Ah've got tae kidnap the Archbishop tae marry us. Much'll be ecstatic if Ah do, though," he added irrelevantly. "'E's always wanted tae do somethin' like tha'. Ye'll no' be wit'out a husband fer long, love, tha' Ah can promise ye." He kissed her again, and sat up. "Ah'll speak tae yer uncle, Marian, Ah promise ye. Bu' first shall we go'n let evera one know Ah'm still alive, then? T'would be awkward, I'd think, announcing tha' yer goin' tae marry a dyin' man."

She grimaced, and slid off of him, carefully. He shouldn't be up and about yet, she was sure, but she also knew he wouldn't let that stop him for a moment.

* * *

"Ah dinna think Ah've eva seen all o' ye a' one time in the same place," Robin remarked, startling his outlaws, Friar Tuck, and Sir Richard. Heads jerked up at the sound of their friend and leader's burr.

"Robin!" Several of them shouted and all jumped to their feet, with varying degrees of speed and steadiness. They crowded around him as he leaned on Marian, and for once, he was relaxed enough to allow it. Nevertheless, it quickly became unbearable, and he insisted they sit down again.

"M'lords, m'ladies," a page inquired formally, drawing their attention once all was settled.

"Aye, lad?" Robin asked, amused.

"His Royal 'Ighness, King Richard the Lionheart, wishes fer you to attend 'im in the Great 'All," the boy concluded, looking proud that _he'd_ been called upon to tell the famous Robin Hood and his outlaws that the Lionheart wanted them. It was a story he'd tell his grandchildren, how he had come in contact with two real-life heroes.

"As you all know, I originally came to Mapperley to name an heir, as the late Earl died without one." King Richard regarded his subjects—even the wayward ones—with an equal eye. His brother squirmed uneasily under his level gaze, the outlaws stood straight and proud. Ironic, certainly, that the ones without noble blood were nobler than a Prince. "And before I announce my plans for Mapperley, there is something even more pressing that needs to be done."

He bounded from the slight dais with a lithe movement, his usual energy in evidence, stopping in front of Robin and Marian. Robin was leaning against his niece, but holding up well over-all, despite the wound he'd only barely overcome, the King noted happily. It amused him—he had planned on introducing them when he had returned to England, with great hopes for a betrothal. Yet here they were, head over heels in love, without any help from him. God had obviously had a similar plan, for hadn't Marian and Robin both offered themselves as a sacrifice for the other's safety? Marian, the night before Robin had been stabbed, Robin, simply by planting himself before all his people. And there was tiny Gabriella of Hedrix, standing beside the giant called Little John, her hand in his, a coupling that pleased him nearly as much as Robin and Marian's.

"Robin Loxley, formerly of Dhu Lairg, known as Robin Hood, do you swear fealty to me, King Richard of England?" His hands were held at chest height, open and facing palm up.

Robin blinked once, a silent question of the man that he'd been loyal to for most of his adult life, and then placed his own hands in Richard's. "Ah do, Yer Majesty, if'n t'is yer will."

The King smiled slightly, and turned to his niece. "Do you, Marian, formerly of Blackstone, swear your fealty to me?"

Without hesitation she replied, "Yes, I do, Uncle."

The king repeated this gesture with every member of Robin's band, in all cases getting a positive response.

Much agreed straight off; Little John a little slower to agree; Gabe looked pale and composed as she placed her hands in her monarch's; Maud looked suspicious but did it anyway, figuring that if Robin and the others trusted him, she could too.

Allen and Anne glanced at one another once over the head of the babe Anne held, and swore together. Friar Tuck was given the choice not to associate with them as one of the band, and chose to both associate and swear fealty to the Lionheart. Sir Richard, as the holder of what was technically Robin's, was also given that choice. He reacted predictably, and agreed.

That done, the king returned to the front of the large room. "Now, then. Having reinstated you to the status of my subjects…it is called to my attention that there has been quite a lot of complaint about some outlaws in Sherwood. Will any of you try to deny that you ten are responsible?"

"Nay, Yer Majesty, 'twas us." Robin answered for all of them, his voice emotionless as he regarded his sovereign. Nothing was said of the ones Robin had sent on in the final weeks.

"You've riled a good many of my nobles, Robin. They are calling for your blood, as I'm sure you are aware."

"Aye, Majesty."

"Now, I could order you all to hang by the neck until dead, and no one would argue it," It wasn't lost on either the King or Robin how the Prince suddenly stood still, something like hope gleaming bright in his eyes. The Sheriff, who stood beside John, looked downright ecstatic. Robin's eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened slightly on Marian's, but he said nothing. There was no way he would allow anyone else to be harmed—he would send them all to Scotland and remain to throw the English off, if it came to that. Even his loyalty to the English king would not allow him to see his people harmed.

"But I think not. I don't know of a scaffold that would hold all of you, and I wouldn't degrade your loyalty to one another by hanging you separately." The Prince and Sheriff deflated, sending nasty looks at their monarch and the outlaws.

Richard eyed them pointedly—quellingly—and continued. "Since that is the case, I plan on putting your uses to my purposes. You have so far been remarkably effective in tying the aristocracy in knots. If you ask me, they have become far too complacent lately, bleeding the country like leeches. Robin, I think the best use I have for you is to require that you and your bride remain in England and keep things fair."

Robin blinked again—how had the King known of his and Marian's desire to marry?

"Mah Laird?"

And how did he expect Robin to make things fair? Robin was an outlaw—and a hated one, at that.

The Lionheart's eyes narrowed with humor, and he drew something tiny from the small pouch that hung from his belt. "As the grandson of Malcolm of Dhu Lairg, you'll know how to run an estate. I'm naming you the heir of Mapperley, and putting the traditional lands of the Loxleys' back into your hands. Your heirs will be named the Viscount of Arborlea, when there is an heir to give that title to." He offered the item, a dull gold ring bearing the Loxley crest, with a smile. "You will also be expected to appear in my court with your wife. It takes a different kind of skill to fight with words than it does with a bow or sword, Robin. I think you will be as good at the latter as you are at the first. And," the King added with a sly smile, "as the Earl of Mapperley, the Lady Marian would be welcome to accept your suit."

The Scot was a perfect solution to this particular dilemma, the Lionheart thought. He had the charisma to hold a Council's attention, the experience to know when to bend and when to stand strong—and the added advantage of the love and affection of Marian, the Court's darling.

Robin appeared to be in shock, fingers curled tightly around his family's ring. "Th-thank ye, Yer Majesty," he managed, when he regained the power of speech. The Prince spluttered something, and was silenced again by Richard's subduing glance.

Richard turned to Marian. "Niece, am I correct in thinking you'd accept Robin's proposal?" She nodded. "Good. He's an excellent man. You, I think, will be happy either here or in Scotland. Taking care of Mapperley with Robin should be demanding enough, but there is also the matter of your stepmother's and stepbrother's deaths to deal with. You will have large responsibilities from here on in, ones that will require cunning and wit as well as caring and nurturing. You will rise to the task, I'm sure." She nodded again and thanked him.

"Much. You would prefer to stay with Robin, would you not?"

"Yes, Your Highness. He's my best friend, my lord," Much answered.

"You would stay here, as his adviser, am I right?"

"If he'll have me, then yes, Lord, I'd hoped so."

"Good. That, then, is your task. Aid your friend as you would me, and continue to assist him as you have in the past."

Little John and Gabrielle were to be married sometime soon—likely when Robin and Marian married. Little John was to inherit—as was originally planned, before Little John became an outlaw by the Sheriff's excessive taxes—the inn, the Dragon's Head. Maud was to stay on at Mapperley, doing what she loved best—cooking good food, looking after small children, and riding herd on her adopted brood of outlaws. Allen and Anne would stay with them—Allen as a scribe, for his hand made playing the lute largely impossible, and Anne as Marian's companion. Friar Tuck was given no choice to make; as a man of God, Richard could not order him to do anything. He was invited by Robin to make his home at Mapperley, and stay on as the resident clergyman. Sir Richard was to continue to hold Daerdenell as Robin's chaplain and adviser.

"There'll be plenty of time, of course, to heal and perform any religious ceremonies—marriages, funerals. For now, my friends, relax. There is plenty of time later for worrying. Incidentally, Robin," he glanced over at the newly appointed Scottish-Saxon lord. "I'd like some nieces and nephews sometime soon. I hadn't planned on having an outlaw for an in-law…but allowances can be made, with young faces in these halls again."

Robin smiled; the smile one of his first without any sort of shadow. "Ah'll git right on tha', sire, jus' as soon as Friar Tuck will marry us."

Richard returned the smile with a regal nod—Robin could see now where Marian had gotten it—and turned to his brother and the Sheriff.

"However, there were also other complaints, slightly less forthcoming in nature, upon my return. Something about unreasonable taxes. John, how might that have happened? I believe that when I left, most of our Saxon friends were relatively content."

The prince blushed, an ugly color rising to his sallow face.

"That shall be put to rights, I think," Richard continued, a hard light in his light blue eyes, "When we get back to court. There is another matter that also greatly disturbs me, brother. I realize that bandits tend to be quite taxing on the nerves—apologies for that pun, it was unintentional—however, they are to be tried fairly, not subjected to…ah…torture. Do I make myself quite clear, John?"

The Prince muttered something unintelligible. Richard threw him another look, but apparently let it go—for now, anyway.

"There was one last problem I mean to address. You see, my clerks tell me that there was a discrepancy between the recorded taxes collected by the Sheriff of Nottingham and handed over to the Crown, and the recording in the Exchequer. I later learned that the good Sheriff was—how to say this delicately?" The King wondered aloud, raising his eyes to the ceiling briefly, as though expecting it to be written there in the stone. "Ah, yes. _Usurping_ the taxpayer's money—and using those funds to line his own pockets. That, I fear, is inexcusable. I here-by relieve him off his position, and instead, place Much Whitewell in his stead. Do you accept this position, Much?" He didn't have the charismatic good-looks of Robin, but the King had found an implacable knowledge of right and wrong that he liked in the short Saxon, and Much's natural good-humor and Saxon heritage would smooth many of the bumps the previous Sheriff had created.

Much looked just as startled as Robin had when the Scot was given an earlhood. "Ah—aye, Your Highness. If you would have it so, then, well, of course."

The King smiled. All was as it should be now, with the proper rewards doled out.


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

_Mapperley Castle, England, 1196. September the 17__th_

"My Lord! My Lord!" Robin's head snapped up at the pageboy's shout. The messenger was bent over double in an attempt to regain his breath.

Robin had been called away on urgent business at Arborlea. And the very second he had finished, he'd had ridden hell-for-leather to return home before the day was over. With Marian due to give birth to their first child almost any day now, Robin had been reluctant in the extreme to leave her. Now his face lost all color.

"Aye? Speak, lad!" Robin was off his exhausted mount in an instant, barely pulling it to a halt before he flung himself from the saddle.

"Lady…Marian…" That was all that the boy had panted before his master shoved the beast's reins into his hands and dashed inside, shouting a word of thanks over his shoulder. Dodging maids and manservants, Robin bolted up three flights of stairs and down a corridor, skidding to a halt outside his bedchamber. Much stared at him in shock from where he paced the hall outside the solari.

"Robin! I didn't expect—"

"Marian—" The Scot demanded, his question unfinished.

"—is fine. Really. The midwife's in there now, and she's only just started—"

A scream cut Much off, leaving Robin even paler. He lunged at the door, and tried to open it.

_It was locked!_ What right did it have to be locked? It _his_ damn bedroom—they couldn't lock him out of his own bedroom when his wife was giving birth to his child inside!

A female voice from inside denied his entrance, saying that men had no place in the birth chamber.

"Open the damn door, or Ah'll break it daown!" The Earl roared over his wife's scream, hurling himself against it. It opened before he could react, and he tumbled in inelegantly. Maud grinned at him blindly, chuckling, while another woman—the mid-wife, he learned later—chided him. Robin ignored the scolding, stationing himself firmly at Marian's side, while she walked and sat and cursed him. She grasped his hand hard as another contraction ripped through her, her nails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood. He never felt the pain.

"You're never touching me again, you bloody bastard! Not ever, do you hear me, Robin Loxley? I swear to you, I'll castrate you before you touch me again!"

"Ah know, love. Anathing ye want, love," he murmured back, terror for her and the babe making him compliant.

Hours later, he was still there, still frantically apprehensive about his wife, though by now she had moved to the bed, and was straining to bring their child into the world. His hand bled, though he took no notice as he murmured words of encouragement and love to Marian when she was finally allowed to push. Threats of torture that would have made Guy of Gisbourne whimper just hearing where blithely acknowledged as he stroked her and worried.

"Push, dear, you're nearly there," the mid-wife crooned.

Marian cried out again, clenching once again on Robin's hand. His other hand smoothed sweat-damp hair away from her face. "Come on, love, ye kin do it. Oh, ye brave lass, yer so beautiful. Push, love, aye tha's it—Marian, love, yer nearly there—"

"This is your fault, Robin—_Aaahhh_—it _hurts, _you_ bastard_—"

"One more good push, m'Lady…Ah! There we go!" Marian went lax as the baby slid out, and onto the blanket that the midwife held. She rubbed the child vigorously as it sent up a hearty wail, and tied off the cord with the ease of long practice before trimming it. The older woman presented the Lady of Mapperley with her child. Marian, exhausted but exhilarated, took the child eagerly. The mid-wife turned to the Scot beside her Lady.

"You have a son, milord. Congratulations." The congratulations fell on deaf ears as the man cradled his wife and child, his hard face alight with joy. The woman shook her head at the man's odd behavior and left the room with Maud, to inform the other members of the household of the newest arrival and give the new parents time with their infant son.

"Wot'll we name 'im?"

"Can we name him Thomas?" Marian asked her husband tiredly, tilting her head back for Robin's kiss. She loved the awe on his face, loved him more than ever, and knew he felt the same.

"Aye. An' 'is short-name kin be Tam. Ah've a cousin—somewhere—we call Tam, an' 'is given name be Thomas. Marian, 'e's so beautiful."

Marian smiled. "I like Tam. I think it'll suit him." Then her eyes went hard. "But you're still never touching me again."

He proved her wrong three times in the years following Tam's birth, with Lisabeth, Daniel, and the twins, Rosalin and Mae.

i

Solar: the master of the house (in this case, Robin)'s personal bedchamber.

THANKS VERY MUCH to PeanutTree, Kat, Anon(ymous), Amy, BP, and any others who have read and commented. Your comments were very inspiring! Well done especially to any and all who understood the myriad references to other, far more famous Robin Hood stories than my meager attempt. ^_^


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